


The Comforts of Tea

by Maeerin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Angst, Memory Loss, Misdiagnosis, POV John Watson, Season 3 compliant, although it's not mentioned, forced drugging, husbands flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3508322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would you do, if the thing that defines who you are was taken away?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Comforts of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> The symptoms are exaggerated for fictional use; they are based off of medical fact/official websites, and then enhanced to the nth degree for angst.

**January**

John hovered around the flat, mentally checking of the list of things to do. They had had their tea and breakfast, he wasn’t working today—he had memorized his schedule for the month, and hadn’t been taking many shifts since—well, _since._

He walked into the sitting room and sat down. _Maybe this’ll be an easy day_ , he thought, and then immediately dismissed it. It was never easy—but there were definitely days that were much difficult than others. He glanced up at his husband, who was sitting in his chair, fully dressed, and reading a book on beekeeping. John grinned to himself.

Sherlock stilled in his seat and glanced up at John, his face unexpressive apart from the tiniest flicker of uncertainty.

“Tea?” he asked quietly.

John cleared his throat. “You already had some. Would you like more?”

Sherlock seemed to ponder this for several seconds, and John was just about to go to his book, when Sherlock closed the book with a thud and held it in his lap. His eyes flickered from John to the flat, and then to the book, to the shelves, and then to his own body. He glanced at his legs, and then at his arms, then lingered at his hands.

John waited patiently, and watched Sherlock focus intently on the silver wedding band on his left ring finger. Sherlock frowned as he stared at the ring on his finger. “Who would marry me?” he whispered.

John frowned and set his book aside, and then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sherlock, do you know who I am?”

Sherlock slowly looked up at him, but his expression remained quizzical.

“No.”

*            *            *

**One year ago, February**

John glanced up. Sherlock was tapping his fingers against the armrests of his chair, tapping each one at a time with a fast tempo. One of his knees was shaking, and his face was masked with simple nervousness. He looked indifferent—almost.

John paused with unwrapping the parcel on his lap. “You all right?”

Sherlock blinked and focused on John. “I’m fine, yes. Will you just open it already.”

“Impatient are we? It’s not everyday one’s partner gets an anniversary gift, hell even to have him remember it,” John said with a gentle smirk.

“I remembered last year,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Well, that was our first one.” John had been surprised Sherlock remembered their first anniversary, but the surprise was short lived. Of course Sherlock would remember the day they vowed their lives to each other, expecting _otherwise_ would have been a (disappointing) surprise.

John looked back to the parcel and unwrapped the brown paper to reveal a rectangular scarlet box. He glanced up at Sherlock fondly before he looked back down and pulled the lid open.

John inhaled quickly, and pulled out a silver chain with a rectangular metal plate. A smile formed on his face as he read the inscription.

_Sherlock Watson-Holmes_

_&_

_John Watson-Holmes_

_January 29, 2010_

John looked up at him and smiled wide. Sherlock met his eye and smiled back. Silently, John stood up and walked up to him, holding the necklace out.

“Will you do the honors?”

Sherlock stood up and took the accessory. John turned around and then Sherlock clasped it around his neck. In the mirror above the fireplace, it fell right on John’s breastplate beside his heart. John blushed in the mirror and turned around.

“You remembered this day.”

Sherlock scoffed, despite his cheeks heating. “Of course I remember.”

John smiled. To remember their wedding anniversary was one thing, but this…this was simply amazing. He stood on his toes and kissed Sherlock deeply, placing his hands on his waist. Sherlock leaned forward into the kiss, diving deeper and wrapping his arms around John’s lower back. John could feel the metal piece against his own chest, and warm affection doused in his veins.

He broke them apart just enough to graze Sherlock’s lips as he spoke. “I know it’s still morning, but I would love to take you back to bed.”

Sherlock smirked and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “And what are you planning to do?”

John giggled. “Anything. Anything you want.”

Sherlock grinned. “But you have to be at the surgery soon,” he reminded John with a slightly putout tone.

John’s grin faltered and he sighed. “How about a quick snog?” His eyes twinkled with smugness, which he knew Sherlock couldn’t resist. He took John’s hand and led him to the sofa, leaving their cups of tea behind to turn cold. John didn’t waste any time; he straddled Sherlock’s thighs and started kissing him passionately.

Sherlock parted his lips and arched up to the contact, running his hands down John’s sides and resting them on his hips. John moaned and pulled away far enough to kiss along Sherlock’s cheek, trailing down his jaw and to his neck. He sucked on the pulse point, and cradled Sherlock’s neck with his hand, holding him gently in place. Sherlock moaned and absentmindedly toyed with the necklace around John’s neck.

John’s phone rang in the background, but they ignored it. John started unbuttoning Sherlock’s purple shirt, trailing his lips downward as he followed his movements. John’s phone rang again, and with an annoyed huff he pulled back.

“I’ve got to go. But I’ll be back soon,” he said with a smirk. He climbed off and fixed himself as Sherlock buttoned his shirt.

“I can order dinner when you come home.”

John smiled. “That’ll be great. Chinese?”

Sherlock nodded. He leaned forward and kissed his husband chastely.

John hummed. “What are you going to do all day?”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the book on the table. “I’ll get to reading that.”

John smiled. “I’m glad you like it. Books on Victorian beekeeping aren’t as common as you think.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You just have to know where to look.”

John kissed him on the cheek and turned to the door. “I love you.”

Sherlock smiled, and watched John leave.

***            *            ***

Later that evening, John trudged up the stairs and walked into the flat to find Sherlock lying on the sofa with an arm over his eyes. John dropped his bag by the door and took his coat off, noticing there wasn’t any takeaway to be seen.

Feeling unnerved, John pulled out his phone and called their usual order before striding to the sofa and sitting on the edge by Sherlock’s legs. He ran a hand down the man’s thigh, startling him awake.

“Hm?”

“You forgot dinner.”

Sherlock ran a hand over his face and sat up. “I suppose that’s a bit not good on one’s anniversary.”

John ran his hand through Sherlock’s curls and smiled softly. “It’s all right. At least it’s not our first. Cause then you’d be in trouble,” he said with a smirk.

Sherlock’s pupils started to dilate and his breathing hitch. “If it were our first, hypothetically, what would my punishment be?”

John laughed and leaned forward, pressing his lips chastely against Sherlock’s. “That’s strictly hypothetical. Forget next year, then maybe by then I will have thought of something.”

Sherlock huffed and kissed him again, parting his lips with his tongue and deepening the kiss. John moaned against him and scooted closer. They only managed to get their shirts off before there was a knock on the door. Putting himself back together, John stood up to retrieve their food.

They sat at the table, John taking more than usual and Sherlock taking a reasonable amount.

“The surgery was hectic, I haven’t eaten much; I’m starving.” He nudged Sherlock slightly as he swallowed. “What did you do? I can see you’ve been in your dressing gown all day.”

“I finished the beekeeping book.”

John looked up briefly before smirking. “I’m not surprised, though I would have bet it would have taken a few hours least.”

Sherlock shrugged with a smirk. “Took me only two hours.”

“Did you do anything else?”

Sherlock sighed as he picked at his rice. “Nope. You know how it is. There hasn’t been a case in a week.”

“Just a dry spot I’m sure. Likely tomorrow Lestrade will call and have one for us.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and resumed eating. Several minutes later, the dishes were cleaned and the pair lounged onto the sofa, Sherlock lying his feet over John’s lap while John started to read. The kettle boiled, and Sherlock went into the kitchen, and poured two cups of tea, his being a new brand John had made him try, which to his dismay he quite liked—and to John’s disbelief, unfortunately taking a little more out of his wallet. Sherlock brought them to the sitting room and handed John his tea before sitting back down.

He watched John took a long sip and then set it aside before turning to him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioning only to find an armful of John before he could open his mouth to comment. John wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him deeply; Sherlock kissed back, holding John close with his hands on his lower back. He slowly lied down on his back with John onto of him, and they continued to snog each other for several moments.

John pulled back just enough to catch his breath. “I’m sorry I had to work today.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You know this day is only important to me because it is to you. You had to work, I didn’t mind.”

“Well shouldn’t you have? I’m not in charge of us, you have a say in things too.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “I know. Though this day will just seem like any other day, if making it special makes you happy, than I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”

John’s eyes darkened, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine. “Anything?” John whispered deeply, licking his lips and looking into Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock’s breath hitched and leaned up enough to graze John’s lips. “Anything.”

John groaned. “Come on,” he whispered, leading Sherlock to their bedroom.

Once inside, John pushed Sherlock gently down onto the bed. John stepped forward and stood between his knees. He started kissing Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his neck and holding him close. While he trailed his lips down Sherlock’s jaw and to his neck, he slowly started to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock moaned against John’s touch and took over for him, stripping himself just as John started to trail his tongue down Sherlock’s chest.

“I want you on your front,” John whispered against Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock shifted away from John’s touch, missing it immediately. The second he was on his stomach, he felt John’s hands sliding down his sides and then gripping his trousers, pulling them swiftly off, and then took his pants off without a pause

“Beautiful,” John said, as he took off his own clothes until he just as naked as his husband. He slicked his hands with some lube and then placed gentle kisses on Sherlock’s backside and up along his spine. Once he was lying over Sherlock, his dog tag creating goose bumps along Sherlock’s back, he began sucking Sherlock’s neck, who was humming in response and withering underneath.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, thrusting his hips upward towards John and sliding his hand down the duvet to reach his hardening cock.

“Not yet love,” John said, taking Sherlock’s hand away from his cock and holding it above his head against the pillow. He started preparing Sherlock with his other hand, slowly and gently. Eventually, he managed three fingers inside of him, and Sherlock was moaning and rolling his hips against John’s cock and the duvet, desperate for friction.

“John.”

“Yes, my love.”

John aligned himself with Sherlock, and slowly entered his husband. The two men gasped in pleasure; Sherlock clutched at the duvet and John clutched Sherlock’s hips, holding him still. Once he was fully in, he stopped.

“John,” Sherlock moaned impatiently. John grunted, and rolled his hips, hitting the right spot and knowingly sending shivers through Sherlock’s veins.

“Oh fuck yes, Sherlock, oh, you’re amazing,” John moaned as he pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder blades as he pounded into him.

“John, yes, harder, oh—” Sherlock let go of the duvet with one hand and wrapped hit around his cock, stroking it in time with John’s thrusts.

“Oh, god yes,” John moaned, placing open mouth kisses on Sherlock’s skin as he wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s hand and cock.

“Oh!” Sherlock gasped at the sensation of John’s hand and thrusted up against him. John’s dog tag rubbed against Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock shivered beneath him, the cool metal no doubt being the reason. John increased his pace at the sight of it, watching his tag graze Sherlock’s spine with every thrust.

“Oh, John, John!” Sherlock exclaimed. “I’m going to-”

“Yes, yes, Sherlock, come on,” John said, speeding up his thrusts.

Sherlock came as John hit his prostate and quickly soon John followed, rolling his hips while riding out his orgasm. He shuddered against his husband and lied against him, his chest pressed up to his back, and the metal plate cooling the center of their contact.

As their orgasms began dying away, John caught his breath and pulled out gently, and then turned onto his back and looked at his husband.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he said, before placing a wet, passionate kiss on Sherlock’s kissed-swollen lips.

“I love you too, John,” Sherlock mumbled, humming in pleasure at the feeling of John’s naked body over him. “I defiantly won’t be forgetting this orgasm any time soon.”

John giggled and placed his arm around Sherlock’s middle. “You haven’t forgotten any of them, I don’t see why you’d start now.” He turned on his side and started pressing faint kisses along his shoulder and collarbone. Sherlock sighed contently and brought his arms around his husband, bringing him closer until he had John pressed up against his bare chest.

“What are you thinking about?” John asked after a moment.

Sherlock shifted slightly so he could lower his head and look down to met John’s eye. “Nothing in particular. I find myself…” he paused, which suggested he was about to get emotional, which John knew was rare in moments yet he relished in the sparse times Sherlock chose to confide with him.

John leaned back slightly and waited patiently for Sherlock to find the words.

“I feel at peace,” Sherlock’s face contorted to a grimaced and he scoffed at himself. “God that sounds tedious.”

John giggled beside him. “It’s sound like you’re just happy. An orgasm will do that to you, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Sherlock scoffed lightly and snuggled closer to John. John wrapped his arms around him and kissed the point of skin where his neck met his collar.

“I guess I should bask in this peaceful mood. Tomorrow, if we don’t get a case, you’ll start your sulk.”

Sherlock grinned at how marvelously John knew him. “Probably. You have about, oh, eight hours. What else shall we do?” he raised an eyebrow suggestively at John. John smiled and curled tighter against him.

“I’m afraid I’m knackered. Is that all right?”

Sherlock nodded honestly. “Go to sleep. I’ll probably stay awake for a little while.”

“’Kay.” John stifled a yawn and buried his face against Sherlock’s neck. He fell to sleep rather quickly, and Sherlock followed him an hour later.

*            *            *

It was early in the morning when Sherlock’s phone rang. John woke up to find Sherlock still sound asleep, so he answered it, recognizing Lestrade’s number.

“What is it?”

“John?”

“Yeah, Sherlock’s still asleep. I take it you’ve got a case.”

“Yeah, It’s quite perplexing. The victim is a 68-year-old man, Dr. George Ellis, found at the bottom of the stairs. Now it had seemed like he had just fallen down, but the family wanted an autopsy, so Molly performed it, and she wasn’t sure what to declare it, accident or murder.”

“Murder?” John repeated.

“He doesn’t have any broken bones, just blunt force trauma to the head. If he had fallen down the stairs—.”

“He would have broken several bones, because of his age,” John finished.

“Exactly. The scene is still sealed of. His wife is being taken care of by the family. There’s another thing.”

“Hm?”

“An ambulance wasn’t called until at least two days after the fact, when a neighbor came by and found the body.”

“What about the wife?”

Lestrade paused. “She has Alzheimer’s, still in the early stages, but it hasn’t been easy to get anything from her.”

John inhaled deeply. “All right, we’ll take the case. Text the address, I think Sherlock would want to look at the crime scene.”

“All right then.” Lestrade hung up.

John gently shook Sherlock shoulder, stirring him awake.

“What is it?” he slurred.

“A case. An elderly man fell down the stairs, or so it had seemed.”

Sherlock rubbed his face and slowly sat up. “That’s an accident—.”

“Molly examined the body. He only has one injury.”

Sherlock was becoming more awake now. “Oh, well that is peculiar.”

“It is. Now get dress,” John said.

Sherlock nodded and slowly stood up. “Make me some tea.”

John sauntered into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. He went back to their room and dressed while Sherlock freshened up in the bathroom. A few minutes later, he put his jacket on as he prepared them tea just as Sherlock entered the kitchen.

“We can take it to go,” he said as he handed his to him.

Sherlock sighed but took it with a grateful smile. “God I feel more tired than usual.”

John paused for a second with tying his scarf. “You’re not coming down with the flu, are you?”

Sherlock grinned at him reassuringly. “It’s probably nothing. Just you keeping me up too long” He leaned down and quickly kissed John before striding down the stairs and outside.

*            *            *

Sherlock and John walked into the victim’s home, accompanied by Lestrade. Sherlock made his way easily to the end of the stairs, which were directly in front of the door, on the right, while John looked around as he followed him. At the foot of the stairs, there was a dried pool of blood.

“Do you have a photograph of the body?” Sherlock asked. Lestrade handed him a photo, Sherlock only briefly looked at it before he took a step back from the stairs and looked at the door.

“He didn’t fall down the stairs,” Sherlock said. Lestrade shuffled his feet.

“How—.”

“His body is positioned in a way that suggests he was facing the door when he was attacked. So whoever attacked him had entered, most likely he was invited in, although he could have broke in through the front door, then that suggests he would be an amateur.”

“He?”

“Most probable. The force on the victim’s head was very strong, killing him with one blow.” Sherlock looked at the other photos. “The hit came from a height and struck in a downward motion, and since the victim is just about six feet, that angle and trajectory of the blow suggest the murderer is taller than the victim, statistically more likely a man. Did you find the murder weapon?”

“Amazing,” John uttered under his breath. It never failed to get Sherlock’s attention; Sherlock glanced at him with a slight blush rising on his cheeks, but he quickly stilled his face and looked at Lestrade.

Lestrade blinked at the change of direction. “Er, no. If there was we would have suspected murder from the start.”

Sherlock looked around the entryway, and then headed to the first room, which was the kitchen. Nearly everything was sealed with childproof locks, everything from the pantry to the stove knobs, and even the jar of tea was locked. Sherlock walked into the dining room. There were several books on neurology, neuroscience, craniotomies, and mental diseases.

“What did you say his profession was?” John asked, observing the books.

“Er, well he’s a doctor. Not sure what kind—,” Lestrade started.

“Surgeon—neurosurgeon.” Sherlock skimmed the opened books on the table, and the notes. “Ellis had been reading into Alzheimer’s, which made sense because of his wife’s condition. But these books were primarily for research, not necessarily for caretaking, although a doctor specializing in the brain could have wanted more information to understand the disease…I don’t suppose his wife has anything to say.”

Lestrade shook his head sadly. “She didn’t understand what was going on; she kept asking for him, but when her daughter tried explaining it, she just didn’t get it. She kept claiming he was probably busy at work.”

Sherlock hummed in response and continued looking around the room. He focused on a notebook, opened with a pen lying over it—

“Ellis had been sitting here and writing just before he was killed.”

“So someone comes to the door—.”

“Probably someone he knew, since the door doesn’t show any sign of forced entry. Unless,” Sherlock huffed with frustration. “The door could have been unlocked, and the murderer just walked in. Ellis’ wife may have forgotten to unlock it—how long is her prognosis?”

“Just about four months ago. It was diagnosed as Early on-set, but it worsened pretty fast.”

“Was she ever lucid?”

“You’ll have to ask their daughter, Lucy.”

“Call her, tell her to meet you at the station, and bring her mother.”

“Her mother won’t have much to say.”

“She might. I’ll talk to her. Bag the journals too, and send them over.”

“Are they evidence?”

“They might say something helpful.”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. Sherlock sighed. “I’ll refrain from being myself. We’ll meet you at Scotland Yard. Come on, John.”

Sherlock sauntered out the front door with John right behind him. They walked to the main street and hailed a cab. Sherlock busied himself with his phone when John spoke up.

“It’s quite sad,” he murmured.

Sherlock glanced at him. “Hm?”

“Watching a loved one slowly not recognize you. I’ve seen some cases before I joined the army, it’s almost worst than cancer.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows and looked at John. “How so?”

John furrowed his brows quizzically and continued gently. “Cancer is physical, it can be beat, but this, losing what makes a person an individual, losing one’s self to something invisible, it’s…” he trailed off and fell silent, his face expressing more than just medically compassion.

Sherlock sat back in his seat and looked at John, his face dawning with realization. “You knew someone with Alzheimer’s. A family member.”

John nodded sadly. “My grandfather. I was just a kid but I saw what it did to my grandmother and my father.”

Sherlock swallowed tightly, and took John’s hand reassuringly. John grinned at him and squeezed his hand.

They made it to New Scotland Yard, and headed to a conference room where Lestrade was there with the daughter of the victim and her mother. Lestrade and the daughter—Lucy—were talking while her mother was looking between the two with a slight quizzical look.

Sherlock and John walked in and introduced themselves to Lucy.

“I’m very sorry about your father, and your mother,” John offered. Lucy smiled sadly and nodded.

The two sat down, with Sherlock facing Lucy and John beside him in front of Lestrade.

“I understand you think my father was murdered,” Lucy said. The three men nodded.

“There were journals at your parents’ home, belonging to your father. Would you mind us reading them? Maybe they can help us with finding the killer,” John asked. Lucy nodded slowly.

“That’ll be fine. He usually wrote about his thoughts and ideas when he was working, and kept at it even when he retired just last year. A lot of it now was about my mother’s condition. He seemed certain it wasn’t Alzheimer’s that she had.”

Sherlock leaned closer. “Your father doubted the diagnosis?”

Lucy nodded. “She would be lucid for several days, and then not for not as long. At least, that was it for the first couple of months.”

“It could be a side effect from a medication. Does your mother take any?” John asked.

Lucy shook her head. “My father went through everything they had, but couldn’t find any. He took her off her medication for a brief time, not long enough it would be dangerous, but the symptoms didn’t stop.”

“Does your father have enemies? Competitive coworkers?” Sherlock asked.

Lucy shook her head again. “He was respected at his work, many came around and helped out when we found out.”

“Did he ever fire anyone?” Sherlock asked.

“Sometimes he did. But usually it was because of budget cuts. Most were interns, some residents. A couple of times it was because of a malpractice suit, but he never hears from them again.”

“Do you have names?”

“Er, you don’t think they would have something to do with this?”

“It’s possible, I need to look at every connection your father made. Does the hospital have a record of his co-workers?”

“Yes—.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, who reluctantly nodded. “We’ll have to have their permission, otherwise we’d need a warrant. But it could help narrow down the suspects.”

“It wasn’t a stranger, your father knew him. We’ll go over any coworkers and keep you updated.” Sherlock looked at Lestrade, who cleared his throat.

“May he talk to your mother? Try to see if she saw anyone?”

Lucy bit her lip with reluctance. “No harm will come from it, I guess.” She nodded and turned to her mother.

“Mum, these men would like to talk to you about dad?”

The mother looked at Sherlock and John. “Would you get me some tea?”

Lucy began to stand up, but John held up his hand and silently offered to get some. She nodded her thanks, and whispered what she liked.

“The Old English tea, it’s a new brand but that’s all she’ll drink now. With sugar.”

John nodded and left the room. The older woman remained silent and Sherlock waited until John was back, handing her the tea and sitting back down.

“Now, Mrs. Ellis. Did you see anyone who wasn’t supposed to be in your house?” Sherlock asked carefully.

Mrs. Ellis looked at him. “Where’s George?”

Lucy tensed beside her, but remained quiet. Sherlock continued. “He was at your house. Does he have visitors?”

Mrs. Ellis seemed to think for a moment, before she answered him. “Austen and Chaucer come around.” Lucy took her mother’s hand and squeezed it. She looked at Sherlock.

“She used to be a professor of English literature,” Lucy explained. Sherlock sat back, and then stretched out his hand.

“Thank you for your time.” He shook Lucy’s hand, and then quickly left. John quickly said a goodbye, and turned to leave. Lestrade handed him the journals, and then he left, picking up his pace to catch up with Sherlock.

He stepped closer to the detective and rested his hand on his lower back. Sherlock turned to him, and noticed the bag in his hand.

“Are those the journals?”

John nodded. “Lestrade will get back to us about Ellis’ coworkers. For now, we have these. Back to the flat?”

Sherlock nodded and hailed a cab for them.

*            *            *

At home, John prepared himself some lunch whilst Sherlock looked over the journals. Most of the notes were about medical ideas and procedures, but based off the entries from four months ago, Ellis’ started recording his wife’s symptoms.

John came up to him and placed a cup of tea in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock absentmindedly took a sip, but suddenly his thoughts cut short and he spluttered the liquid out.

“What the hell is this?” Sherlock asked with a grimace.

John sat down at the table with his own cup and looked up at him. “Tea, though it’s not the new one you like.

Sherlock scrunched his nose and handed the cup back to John. “I don’t know why you bother trying new things only to go back to the original.”

John shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt to branch out. Besides, the new one is more expensive.”

“But now this one hurts my taste buds.”

John giggled and set aside Sherlock’s cup. He reached for one of the journals and looked over them. Sherlock headed back to the kitchen for another cup—the correct one—and noticed John’s lunch was on the counter. Rolling his eyes, he prepared his tea and then brought both to the table, setting John’s sandwich in front of him, only after taking half of it. John paused and then scoffed to himself lightly.

“I knew I was forgetting something.”

Sherlock took the journal back and started re-reading it, swallowing part of the sandwich, and then muttered under his breath, “you must be getting old.”

John huffed and sent him an amusing glare and smirk. “If I am, at least your right behind me.”

This time Sherlock scoffed and went back to reading, however he didn’t fail to notice John’s smirk. Fifteen minutes later, John cleaned his dishes when Sherlock’s phone rang.

“Lestrade’s sending the employee list,” Sherlock reported. John hummed in response and finished with the dishes. He walked back into the sitting room to find Sherlocks starring at the screen unblinking.

“Sherlock?”

It took him five seconds for Sherlock to look at him, his eyes questioning.

“What does the list say?” John asked.

Sherlock blinked and looked back the screen. A minute passed in silence, and then he leaned back and began typing.

“There were two doctors who had been fired for malpractice in the past five years up until Ellis retired.Kevin Dashwood’s whereabouts are unknown, but he did have his medical license taken away nearly five years ago. Dr. Charles Canterbury is working at a pharmacy, which is…the one where the Ellis’s get their medication.”

John retrieved their coats, handing Sherlock’s to him. “All right. Got an address?” Sherlock nodded and put his coat on before exiting out the door, John following him close behind.

*            *            *

The two entered the chemist’s and wandered down the aisle. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at everything, taking in his surroundings before going up the counter. John followed him closely but remained casual.

“Dr. Canterbury?” Sherlock asked as he reached the counter. A small man looked up; his glasses were perched on his nose and he had a beard that pointed like a goat’s. He closed a binder of papers he had been looking at and straightened up, clearly intimidated by Sherlock’s height.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I think you can. What were you—” Sherlock cut himself off. He mouth remained opened half a second before he slowly closed it and blinked. John creased his eyebrows and looked up at the detective. Sherlock blinked rapidly and cleared his throat. He remained silent for several seconds, his brows furrowed together in confusion and thought, and as the silence grew incredibly awkward, John started to shuffle his feet.

Finally, Sherlock straightened up. “Do you have paracetamols?”

Canterbury narrowed his eyes. “Sure.” He turned around to the shelves, and John took the opportunity to lean in beside Sherlock, placing his hand on his lover’s lower back.

“Are you all right?”

Sherlock tensed and took a minute step forward, disconnecting the touch. “Fine,” he mumbled. John swallowed down the hurt and lowered his hand. Before he could go on, Canterbury returned, with a bottle of pills.

“Here you go. Anything else?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What about benzodiazepine?”

“All out of those. We get a lot of elderly patients, and since we’re a small store, our supplies our limited.”

Sherlock stared at him coldly, and then without another word or even taking the paracetamol, he turned on his heel and left. John hurried after him, and met him by the curb, where Sherlock was looking at his phone.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock jerked his head to him slightly, acknowledging John’s voice but remained silent for another minute. He pocketed his phone and then looked at John.

“I need to test everything that Ellis consumed. Everything—specifically their food and medicine. He was right in his journals, his wife did not have Alzheimer’s.”

John stared at him and huffed. “How on earth can you know that?”

“Mrs. Ellis is being drugged. A pharmacy wouldn’t run out of, especially after a restock.”

“When did they restock?”

“Just yesterday. There were supply boxes in the corner by the counter. Canterbury is involved; we just need to prove it. We need to find out how much benzodiazepine Canterbury is buying, and if it corresponds to what he’s selling. Now, in Ellis’s journals, he recorded his wife’s symptoms, and with his experience he concluded she didn’t have Alzheimer’s. But the medical records must have, so she was taking something that caused her brain cells to—to—,” Sherlock clenched his fist and scrunched up his nose in frustration.

“To die,” John said. Sherlock sighed heavily and nodded.

“It’s likely. It may not have damaged it that much, but the constant state of being under this influence was enough to fool anyone—well, almost,” Sherlock added with a light smirk. John kept his brows furrowed and reached a hand over, attempting to feel Sherlock’s forehead. He grazed it, only for Sherlock to pull back.

“You don’t have a fever do you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m fine. Just a headache.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

Sherlock straightened up. “This afternoon,” he said smugly.

John huffed. “Well, wait here, I’ll get the paracetamol.”

John came back out within a few minutes, and handed Sherlock a couple of the pills from the bottle. Sherlock swallowed them dry and then went to the curb to hail a cab.

“St. Bart’s,” Sherlock said to the driver.

John furrowed his eyebrow. “Why are we going there? We don’t have any of the Ellis’ food—”

“I texted Lestrade, who contacted Lucy Ellis. She gave him her permission, and since the house is still a crime scene, Lestrade is having someone sent over to collect everything as we speak.”

*            *            *

At the lab, Sherlock immediately busied himself, reaching for the medications from one of the boxes. There weren’t that many bottles, just what was expected from an elderly couple.

“And the journals,” John mentioned as he ate his crisps. “What sort of symptoms were there—or not there—that suggested it wasn’t Alzheimer’s?”

“She was lucid most of the time—at least in the beginning.”

“But isn’t that why, because it was in the beginning?”

“She wouldn’t have remembered, but she did, sort of. She would become lucid and ask what had happened. She wouldn’t have if it was Alzheimer’s.”

“Oh. But how does that suggest she was drugged?”

“She didn’t have memory problems in the beginning. She was confused at times, and eventually did have memory problems, but it was much later than the documented symptoms. She was mostly confused, drowsy, and had slurred speech. Ellis recorded her symptoms every day, and came with this conclusion that his wife didn’t have Alzheimer’s a few days before he was killed.”

John pondered this for a moment. “So the person drugging Mrs. Ellis would probably be the killer?”

Sherlock looked proud for a moment, and then nodded. “I’m certain it’s Dr. Canterbury, although he probably had help. Chemists don’t exactly get patients easily; they are referenced from private practices.”

“What was he fired for?”

“He gave a patient the wrong amount of medication resulting in brain damage—it was in the records Lestrade sent over. It’s a mystery how he kept his license and even how he got the job at the pharmacy. He is a suspect. And, Kevin Dashwood is one too; Lestrade’s looking to see where he had gone off to.”

“So why would Canterbury drug her though? Was it revenge?”

“That could be a likely motive. I need to find how she was ingesting the drug first, and which one it is.”

“Okay.” John left him to it, and hung around as he usually did. Sometimes he would look into the case, except this was still early and primarily depending on advanced chemistry, which was not his forte.

He looked into the boxes, and immediately noticed something was missing.

“Where’s their tea?”

“They ran out of it. There were empty boxes in the recycling.”

“They didn’t keep it full? Mhm…”

“Besides, it’s not easy to break a tea bag without being obvious. Someone would have noticed.”

John fell silent, as did Sherlock. An hour passed when Sherlock finally made a sound and sighed heavily, running his hand through his curls. He took one glance at John and then stood up.

“Molly will let us know when the tests are done. We might as well go home.”

John stretched and stood up. “You sure?” Since they’ve been married, Sherlock was becoming more considerate to John. John appreciated it of course, but he kept in mind a limit. He didn’t want Sherlock to loose himself only so John wouldn’t feel taken for granted.

Sherlock nodded as he put his coat on.

“Where’s your scarf?” John noticed.

Sherlock straightened out his coat and looked around. “Must have left it at home,” he said with a shrug and headed to the door.

John furrowed his eyebrows. Sherlock never left without it. Although, they had been in some kind of a rush to leave, yet they’ve been in a hurry before…

“C’mon John.”

John shook himself out of his thoughts and followed Sherlock out the door.

*            *            *

At the flat, Sherlock draped his coat on the hanger and immediately went to the kitchen. John heard the kettle switch on and then the ruckus of Sherlock looking for a mug.

The noises came to a halt. John walked in, wondering what Sherlock had gotten into. It was likely serious if the detective was quiet.

Entering the kitchen, John spotted Sherlock standing still; his eyes were squeezed shut and his eyebrows drawn, looking like he was concentrating.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened his eyes immediately and turned to John. “Can you make the tea?” It was a question, but Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer; he walked past John and headed to the sofa where he flopped down, resting his arm over his eyes as if the lights were bothering him.

John retrieved two mugs from the cabinet and prepared their tea. Once it was ready, he went into the sitting room, and sat down on the edge of the sofa by Sherlock’s thighs. He set the mugs down on the coffee table and leaned forward, resting his hand on one of Sherlock’s legs. He pressed a light kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock hummed but didn’t move over. John drank his tea, looked over the notes they had so far, when Sherlock moved and nearly gulped down his own tea. The rest of the day past in relative silence, Sherlock going back to the journals and managing a few bites of dinner. John went to bed soon after, and fell asleep hours before Sherlock joined him.

*            *            *

The next morning, John woke up early to an empty bed. Sherlock’s side of the bed was cold, so John assumed Sherlock hadn’t slept much during the night—if at all. Putting on his robe, John strolled into the kitchen, only to find it empty.

“Sherlock?”

There was no response, and after quickly searching the flat, John came to the conclusion that Sherlock was out. _Good—sort of._ He wanted to make a couple of calls, and didn’t want Sherlock to suspect or ask just yet. Sherlock was probably checking the tests with Molly, so he should be a while, at least John thought so.

John languidly showered and dressed, had a small breakfast and a cup of tea, and then reached for a notepad and his phone. He dialed his first call, getting a gruffly sound on the other line.

“Greg? Sorry, it’s still early.”

“Not a problem. What is it?”

“Can I have Lucy’s number? I have a question for her. It’s probably nothing but I just thought to ask.”

“Er, sure I guess,” Lestrade paused, and there was a rustle of paper. “Here you go. You got a pen?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

John wrote down the number. “Thanks. Sherlock and I will talk to you when we get a lead.”

He hung up and then immediately called the number; Lucy answered it on the first ring.

“Lucy Ellis.”

“Hi, this is John Watson. I’m working with Sherlock Holmes on your father’s case—.”

“Oh, hi! How can I help you?”

“Well I have a question, er, not to do with the case itself, really. Is that all right?”

“Go ahead,” Lucy responded kindly.

“Can I have the number and address to your mother’s doctor? The one who was part of her diagnosis?”

There was a pause. “Sure, um, though I’m not sure if he could help? I’ve never actually met him, though.”

“That’s fine, it could help though. It’s just—a personal matter.”

There was another pause. “I hope everything is all right—,”

“It is. I just have a couple of questions, that’s all.”

“All right, here it is. His name is Dr. John Willoughby,”

John wrote down the details. “Thank you. And I will let you know more once we get a lead. I’m afraid it’s going a bit slow.”

“It’s not a problem. I really appreciate it. I’ve got to go now…”

“Sure, all right. Take care.”

John looked at the information he had written. He dialed the number, and the receptionist answered, spouting out detail before John could get a word it. Willoughby had free time today, much to John’s surprise, so he quickly booked a time slot for later that morning for a consult. John was sure he was wrong, however Sherlock was acting slightly disconnected. Maybe he was just thinking too much into it. The case was messing with his head, John was sure of that. But, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it until he talked to someone who had answers, and not just about Alzheimer’s.

*            *            *

John walked into the doctor’s office. He checked in and then waited among only four others, both couples and obviously elderly. He didn’t have to wait long, before a nurse called him forward and told him to enter the office.

Willoughby’s office was large. There was a door on the other side of the wall that led to an examination table/bed with a sink and counter beside it with all of the necessities. To the left, it was as if the room had once been two; this side was carpeted, with a desk, a file cabinet, and two, clearly comfy, chairs for the patients facing the desk. The man behind the desk stood up and greeted John with a charming smile. He stretched out his hand and introduced himself, his voice smooth and comforting.

“Dr. John Willoughby. You must be Dr. John Watson?”

“Yes, nice to meet you.”

Willoughby indicated the chair and John sat down, his initial impression confirmed.

“Tea?”

“No, thank you, I don’t think I’ll be here long.”

“What can I do for you today? I understand you just had a few questions.”

“Well, yes. For two separate things.”

Willoughby raised an eyebrow, kindly allowing John to go on.

John inhaled deeply. “Okay, well first, one of you patients, Florence Ellis, her husband George was murdered.”

Willoughby inhaled sharply. “Oh! How sudden, was—are you working with the police.”

“In a way, yes. I just wondered if you might know something that can help.”

Willoughby shrugged. “George is—was a kind man, very caring to his wife, and attentive. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s just a few months ago.”

“When was the last time you saw them?”

Willoughby looked at the calendar lying over his desk. “Nearly two weeks ago. Her diagnosis wasn’t slowing down, and George did seem like he’d do anything to keep it stable. God, poor Florence.”

“George kept a journal of her symptoms. Was that your suggestion, or…”

“Well I’m not surprised. He’s a doctor, so—was,” he corrected himself.

“You seem to take this hard, I’m sorry if I—.”

“No, it’s all right. I get really close with my patients. Usually they’re in here for several years, so it makes everything easier if I know both parties.”

John nodded. “Ellis documented some symptoms and seemed to had written down his own thoughts. He came to a conclusion just before he died that his wife was being poisoned, and the Alzheimer’s was just a misdiagnosis.”

“That’s not uncommon. People—the patient and their partners—can take months to except the diagnosis. I’m afraid in Ellis’ case; it was quite obvious early on-set Alzheimer’s. Her family has had a history with it.”

John nodded, and then hesitated.

“Is there something else?” Willoughby asked gently.

“Well I—my grandfather had Alzheimer’s.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Willoughby said with genuine sympathy.

“Is there anyway to know if I may have the gene or something?”

Willoughby raised his eyebrows. “There is, although it’s not recommended. If you have it, there isn’t anything you could do, and there are concerns with how the person will react to it, psychologically speaking.”

John nodded with understanding. “There’s another thing…my partner is working on the case with me. He’s just been acting differently. He’s a genius and can look at something and know intricate detail immediately, but lately, he’s been lagging.”

“Could be exhaustion?”

John shook his head. “When he has a case, he’s never tired. Eventually he’ll crash and sleep for a day, but that is after, and it doesn’t affect his skills. I don’t know if it’s just this case, if I’m just seeing it everywhere.”

Willoughby gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry. You could just be looking too much into it. It could be him aging?”

John laughed lightly. “He just turned forty…”

“See, that’s very young for even early on-set. I mean it could happen, but it’s very, very unlikely.”

John nodded with gratitude. “Thank you, for your time and what you had to say. If I have any questions, can I call?”

“Of course.” Willoughby handed him a card with a set of three numbers. “Any one of those should work. I’m available anytime.”

“Thank you.” John stood up and shook his hand. Willoughby led him to the door, and nodded.

“Anytime. Take a cup of tea on your way out, it could help.”

John nodded and looked towards the tea station. There was only one brand, one he didn’t like, so he walked past it and out the door.

*            *            *

John came back to the flat around noon, only to find it empty. He checked every room and looked around, but there was no sign of Sherlock. He checked his phone, but didn’t even have a missed call or text.

Sighing, he dialed Sherlock’s number, only to hear it a second later underneath Ellis’ journals on the table. It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to disappear during a case—but it was becoming less of a habit—although leaving behind his phone had been a thing of the past. They were married after all, and John was part of his work, so much so that these disappearances were rare and tended to leave John wary.

He picked up Sherlock’s phone, and saw Sherlock had missed calls from John, Molly, and even his brother. Feeling uneasy, John dialed Molly’s number.

“Hi Molly! It’s John. Is Sherlock there?” John asked tensely.

“No, he hasn’t been in today.”

 _That’s odd._ “Oh, no problem, he’s probably just running around on this case. Are the tests he ran yesterday completed?”

There was a pause. “I—he didn’t tell me about them. Would you like me to check?”

John swallowed tightly. “I thought you knew. Could you, while I try to find where he is?”

“Sure. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, it’s fine. I’ll let you know once I find him.”

He hung up before he could dwell on it, and inhaled deeply. He knew he was over thinking it; Sherlock was young—too young. Besides, if one of them was to get Alzheimer’s, it would most likely be John—it was in his blood for Christ’s sake!

John’s phone rang, startling him. He answered it without looking at the ID, and was disappointed to hear Greg’s voice.

“Hey, Greg,”

“John,” Greg’s voice was tense, heightening John’s senses.

“What is it?”

“It’s Sherlock. He’s here, at Scotland Yard—.”

“Is he all right?”

There was a long pause. “Has he been unwell? Has he had a fever or something?

“No, not recently.”

“He’s not…himself. You should come over.”

“I’m on my way!”

*            *            *

John hurried through the doors of New Scotland Yard, and sprinted up the stairs to the fifth floor. He hurried down the hall, ignoring the concerned and sympathetic stares, and walked into Lestrade’s office without knocking.

Lestrade was in his chair, and Sherlock was pacing in front of him. Sherlock turned to John, and only glanced at him before facing back to Lestrade.

“You called him? I just need a case, Gary!”

John met Lestrade’s gaze, who gave him a nod.

“You have a case, Sherlock,” John started. Sherlock turned to him, furrowed his eyebrows slightly before relaxing his face. John tensed; Sherlock’s face was unemotional, and the way he looked at John was like the way he had looked at him when they first met—although it seemed colder now.

“Let’s go home, Sherlock. You need sleep, and food—.”

“You’re not my babysitter—.”

John gently took Sherlock’s arm and pulled him to lead him out of the room. “You’re on a case. It’s waiting at the flat—.”

“What case? Who are you, again?” Sherlock looked around bewildered, and then twisted out of John’s grip. He hurried out of the room and down the hall. John only managed a few big steps before Sherlock was down the stairs and out of sight.

Sighing, he turned to Lestrade. “Was he like that when he got here?”

Lestrade nodded. “He started asking for a case, and when I asked about you, he didn’t know who I was talking about…” Lestrade trailed off as John’s face slowly paled. “I’m afraid…I can’t help but ask, he’s not—.”

John shook his head, understanding Lestrade’s meaning. “No, he’s not. I better go after him. Hopefully he’s going back home.”

“Yeah, go ahead. And this case, it could wait. Just make sure he’s all right.”

*            *            *

On the way home, John went through every hiding spot of Sherlock’s that he knew of. Fortunately, he didn’t have to look for long when Mrs. Hudson called him to let him know Sherlock was home.

John hurried up the stairs to the flat and quickly found Sherlock on the sofa, fast asleep. He checked his forehead for a temperature, but it felt normal.

 _This doesn’t mean anything; it’s something else…_ John told himself. He rolled his shoulders and loosened his neck, but the tension wasn’t going away. He put Sherlock’s discarded coat away and then lied on the sofa, spooning Sherlock with his chest pressed up to Sherlock’s back. _I’ll make sure you’ll all right, I promise._

*            *            *

John awoke to kisses being pressed along his cheek. He shifted; suddenly realizing he had fallen asleep, and he opened his eyes. All he could see were dark curls against his face, and a second later he felt Sherlock’s lips start to suck on the pulse of his neck.

John gently pushed Sherlock off and looked at his face. His eyes were clear, and he looked, well, he looked like his usual self. Sherlock’s eyebrows slowly furrowed, and John felt something pinch his arm.

“Ow, what—.”

“John?”

John blinked and focused on Sherlock.

“Did you hear what I was saying?”

John slowly shook his head. “Sorry?”

“Molly called about the test results.”

It took a few seconds for John to process this. “You talked to Molly?”

“She called your phone. I don’t know why, mine’s working perfectly fine. The tests results are done, and clean. There’s nothing in Ellis’ food or medication that Florence would have consumed to explain her symptoms.

John shifted until he was sitting with his back against the armrest, and Sherlock was on his knees in the middle of the sofa. “Okay…so now what?”

“Well there is something. While you were napping I—.”

“Hang on, how long have you been awake for?”

“Just a few minutes,” Sherlock replied with a very slight put out tone. “But it turns out that Canterbury filled out the prescriptions from Ellis’ doctor.”

“Dr. Willoughby?”

“Yes, he might—wait, how did you know his name?”

“I, er, already met him. You were out this morning, and I had asked Lucy for his number to ask him some questions.”

“And what did he say?”

“He seemed rather sad about George. He was charming; obviously cares about his patients and their partners.”

“Anything suspicious?”

John recalled that morning, and then shook his head. Sherlock thought for a second, and then leaned forward and kissed John’s forehead, his face beaming. “This is why I married you.”

John’s heart fluttered slightly, but he was still having trouble keeping up with Sherlock’s normalcy.

_It’s just in your head. Get this case over with, and then everything will be fine—but why this morning?_

Sherlock leaped from the sofa and stood in front of John. “Canterbury is still missing a great amount of medication that aren’t being sold to any patient, so that must be how he’s drugging them continuously.”

“But how’s he getting it in their system without them knowing?”

Sherlock paused for a split second. “I’m not sure. Whatever he was drugging Ellis with wasn’t in her medication or food. Besides, George would have had symptoms too, if they were eating the same things.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We have Canterbury arrested.”

“You’re sure it’s him?”

“Yes, John, do keep up. We need to prove which drugs Canterbury is giving away, and to whom. Chances are, he’s giving it to someone who has worked with Alzheimer patients, probably still does, and since patients are referenced from the doctor to the pharmacy to provide their medication, it must be someone Canterbury is close to. My bet is on Dashwood.”

John furrowed his eyebrows for a second. “Dashwood? The doctor who’s missing?”

“He changed his identity. But I’m sure Canterbury will give it up.” Sherlock started towards the door, putting his coat on and scarf.

John reached for his jacket. “Where are we going?”

“The chemist’s. I’ll text Lestrade, he’ll meet us there.”

*            *            *

Sherlock and John entered the pharmacy, only to find it deserted. No one was at the counter, despite it being mid-afternoon.

“He fled,” John noticed.

“He’s in the back…” Sherlock quickened his pace and hoped over the counter. He disappeared into the back room. John went around to the entrance on the far left and hurried after Sherlock, when there was a shout, followed by a yelp and then a thump.

John rushed into the room and came to a halt. Sherlock was standing over Canterbury, who was cowering to the corner.

“What’s happened?” John breathed.

Sherlock pointed at a small box that was lying on its side, its contents spilling out. “The drugs, only a few but must be the ones he was going to give to his partner. It’s in a shoebox, so clearly not a shipping package.” Sherlock rounded onto Canterbury. “Who’s your partner? Is it Dashwood?

Canterbury shook his head but remained silent. Sherlock huffed with frustration and stepped back. “Lestrade’s almost here. This case is over.”

John furrowed his brows and looked from Canterbury to Sherlock. Something caught his eye on the floor, and he took a step closer. It was an empty hypodermic needle. John turned back to Sherlock, only to find him going out front and meeting Lestrade and the fellow officers.

John didn’t get a chance to confront Sherlock until they arrived back at their flat. It was past evening, and John couldn’t decide whether he should sleep or eat—or shower. Sighing, John hung up his coat and watched Sherlock hover by his violin, his brows drawn in thought.

Canterbury hadn’t put much of a fight. He admitted at the scene that he was giving the drugs to Dashwood, but claimed he didn’t know where he was, or what name he was going by. He even confessed he killed George, which just irritated Sherlock at how easy he was being.

Sherlock had stated he was telling the truth, and stalked off the scene, finding the conclusion of case boring. It wasn’t completely tied up though, which John found odd. Usually Sherlock would have showed an interest in finding Dashwood, but he seemed to have come to the acceptance that Dashwood may not ever be found. The authorities knew his ways of drugging Ellis, and so he most likely will just drift off the map since his revenge against George was over now that he was dead. Florence may gain her memory back—John made a mental note to contact Lucy, to see if that was possible. At least there was some good news from this case.

Remembering the syringe, John came up to Sherlock and gently placed his hand on his arm in a comforting touch.

“Alright?” he whispered. Sherlock nodded, sending an odd smell to John’s nose. John flinched back, causing Sherlock to turn around and raise his eyebrows.

“You—” John bit down a giggle of disbelief. “When was the last time you showered?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows in thought. That was enough of an answer for John, so he took Sherlock’s hand and headed to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and Sherlock immediately hopped in, but then turned to John, raising an eyebrow.

“Joining me?”

John smirked and undressed. He stood beside Sherlock and closed the curtain; Sherlock went under the spray, and John reached for the soap and lathered it in his hands before he started to rub along Sherlock’s neck and chest. Sherlock turned around, and John reached for his back, only to see a small prick on his upper arm, irritated with dried blood.

John stilled and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock met his gaze and shrugged.

“It was just saline. I barely felt it.”

John glared at him lightly. “It could have been full of air—or a drug—.”

Sherlock rested his hands on John’s shoulders gently. “I’m still fine.”

John inhaled deeply and nodded. Sherlock leaned down and kissed him softly. John didn’t relax though, and looked up at him with concern.

“This morning…”

Sherlock tensed up and started to turn away, but John held him still.  “Sherlock—.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Must we do this while we’re naked?”

John blinked and then slowly dropped his hands, realizing how silly he was being.

“Just…tell me, do you remember this morning?”

Sherlock pressed his forehead against John’s for a moment, and then he leaned back. “I remember bits and pieces. Next thing I knew, I woke up on the sofa even though I knew I went to bed with you. I must have been drugged, but it’s nothing, alright?”

John processed this. “ _Alright_?Just _nothing_? You _were_ drugged. Don’t you want to know how or why? Especially how?”

Sherlock scoffed with disbelief. “I know how. From the paracetamol he was selling. Whatever is in it was in some others, and he distributed to Ellis’s through their prescriptions.”

“But it wasn’t in their medication you tested.”

“No it wasn’t. Conveniently for Canterbury, they had run out a few days ago too, and it wasn’t in the ones we tested, just the ones from that pharmacy—the ones that are meant for Alzheimer patients.”

“So that’s it, then?” John bristled. “Florence Ellis was drugged, but we can’t prove it because the medication is gone.”

“Well, George wrote his suspicions down, and there’s Canterbury’s missing benzos that don’t add up with how much he was selling, so it’s logical to assume he put them in the paracetamol, which was distributed to the Ellis’.”

John relaxed slightly, and then nodded. “Right…” he couldn’t help but feel left out; Sherlock’s explanations made sense, but just this morning he had thought this was going to be a long case. Then again, John was relieved; Sherlock seemed fine, and things were going to go back to normal.

“It’s just…this morning, it scared me up a bit,” John confessed. Sherlock softened his face and stepped closer.

“I’m sorry. But I’m fine now.”

John nodded and leaned forward. He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s lower back, basking in the warm water raining onto them.

*            *            *

John woke up to Sherlock already awake, staring at him, with an odd look in his eye and an empty cup of tea in his hand. John ran his hand over his face and sat up.

“What?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows and kept staring. John sighed inwardly and began to lie back down. “If there’s a mark on my neck, I’ll be happy to give you one, then whole of Scotland Yard will be staring.”

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge John, and slowly left the bed, keeping his eyes on John. John stretched and sat up. “All right, now it’s just getting scary,” he said lightly.

Sherlock’s lip twitched with amusement, but he was still looking at him with uncertainty.

John sighed. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you staring?”

Sherlock blinked and looked away, although it looked forced and hesitant, as he kept looking out of the corner of his eye. “Now what?”

John sat up and scooted closer. “Well, you could look for another case. Or we can have morning shag? I’ll let you wear these tags—.”

Sherlock swatted at him, although John mistook it as playful. He swatted back with a grin, only to falter in his attempt when Sherlock looked at him seriously.

“What about Mary?”

It took John a full ten seconds to realize what Sherlock was talking about, and then he groaned. “Very funny, Sherlock. Now I’m going to go back to sleep. Wake me once you realize that’s not a joke.”

He expected Sherlock to laugh, scoff, anything, but Sherlock furrowed his brows even tighter and slowly left the bed. John rose up and looked at him, swallowing down a feeling of unease.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock hovered by the bed for a moment, and then left, closing the bathroom door behind him.

 _What the hell?_ John thought, and then it hit him. _The syringe!_

Whatever was in it, it probably wasn’t saline like Sherlock had thought. John hurried out of bed and got dressed. He was just getting his shoes on when Sherlock came into the sitting room, fully dressed as well. Sherlock shuffled his feet for a moment and then headed to his chair.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Let’s go to St. Bart’s.”

Sherlock looked at him with a quizzical look. “Why?”

John thought for a moment, but couldn’t think of a reason on the spot. “Just, I’ll tell you when we get there.”

Sherlock looked at him with uncertainty, and then nodded.

*            *            *

John led Sherlock to his usual lab and indicated that he should sit down. He had texted Molly, who was now waiting by the counter, with supplies with her.

“John, what is going on,” Sherlock asked, his manner finally back to normal, apart from his knowledge of the year.

“You’re getting a blood test, oh, and here.” John gave him a plastic cup.

Sherlock gaped at him. “Wh—I’m not high!”

“I know that. Just…go along with this, please?”

Sherlock looked at him odd but sighed and stretched out his arm. Molly took a sample of his blood with ease, and then re-buttoned his sleeve. He quickly left and then came back with the cup full, and handed it to Molly, looking at John with a frown. Molly started the test, and then they waited.

“It’ll be quite a while,” Molly said.

Sighing, John nodded in response and turned to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him with a raised brow.

“John?” Sherlock prompted.

“Later,” John dismissed, and led him out of the lab. They headed home in silence, Sherlock sneaking glances at him but surprisingly keeping quiet. Once they walked back into their flat, Sherlock discarded his coat and jacket and lied down on the sofa. John hovered by him, at a lost of what to do.

“You all right?” he decided to ask.

Sherlock nodded. “I’m thinking.” He grazed his finger along his ring, and then paused in his actions and looked down at it, furrowing his brows in confusion. John kept still, trying to think of answer to Sherlock’s inevitable question, but it never came.

Sherlock placed his hands together and under his chin, and closed his eyes. John watched him for a minute, and then went to the kitchen and prepared them tea. Once it was ready, he came back to the sitting room, hoping to keep Sherlock from falling asleep or into his mind palace. But upon walking into the room, he found Sherlock sitting up and looking at him, once again his brows furrowed.

John swallowed hesitantly. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock relaxed his face and stood up and took the tea. He quickly kissed him on the cheek and then headed to the window, taking a sip of tea and then reaching for his violin. John shuffled his feet and placed his tea on the table, and then walked up to stand behind Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” His voiced trembled despite him trying to keep it still. Sherlock lowered his head to indicate he had heard him, but didn’t speak.

“Tell me…anything, just—.”

Sherlock abruptly turned and hugged John tightly. John was taken aback for a moment, but then returned the contact by wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I don’t understand…”

“It’s all right. I think the syringe didn’t have saline in it, I think—.”

“I think so too. I’m sorry, I didn’t know—.” He huffed with frustration.

John cringed at the sound of his voice and leaned out of the hug. “It’s fine. Whatever it is, it’ll be on the blood test—.”

“Blood test?”

“Yes, I took you to Bart’s, and Molly is running it.”

Sherlock processed this and nodded. “It’s not—.”

“No it’s not. You’re too young,” John said reassuringly.

Sherlock swallowed tightly, his eyes flickering with something.

“What’s on your mind?” John asked.

“What if…what if it is something else?”

“Well, then we’ll talk to Dr. Willoughby. But only if the tests come back clean.”

Sherlock nodded, but continued to look unsure. John tilted his chin upwards with his hand so he could meet his eye, and then leaned forward and pressed his forehead against him.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock nodded against him. “I know. But it’s been on your mind since we got the case.”

John shrugged. “I just thought too much into it.”

Sherlock smirked slightly. “Probably.”

John looked at him, softening his face. “I love you.”

Sherlock’s furrowed his brows, forming his face with attempted seriousness. “Now why would you say that? Nothing is wrong, and nothing like that would be our concern for a few decades at least.”

John huffed with a laugh and stood up on his toes to kiss his husband. “You know,” he said against his lips. “Most people say it back.”

Sherlock smiled and kissed him again. “John,”

“Yes, I know, you love me.”

“I do.” Sherlock kissed him deeply. He trailed his hand from John’s back to his chest and grazed the metal plate hanging over his breastplate. “Very much,” he whispered.

Later that night, as Sherlock fell asleep against John’s shoulder, John couldn’t help but feel it was as if it was the end of the world, as if Sherlock knew it but John didn’t.

 

*            *            *

John walked into the kitchen just as Sherlock hung up his cell phone.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Molly, with the blood result.”

John turned to Sherlock, tensing up slightly. The look on Sherlock’s face caught him off guard, however the tension immediately dissolved.

“Was it…”

“Mostly benzodiazepines,” Sherlock confirmed. “An odd mixture that disrupted my memories. Temporarily, of course.” He walked forward and pressed a light kiss to John’s lip. “It’s out of my system now.”

John sighed with relief and kissed him again. “Good.”

Sherlock grinned and then prepared their teas. They spent the morning relaxed, however John couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            * ~~~~

**March**

John lifted his feet up to make room for Sherlock as he crawled under him and looked under his chair. John sighed inwardly and placed his feet back on the ground as Sherlock hurried to the fireplace and began rummaging through the various nooks and crannies.

“Sherlock,” John began softly. “They aren’t there—.”

“I need to find my cigarettes, John,” Sherlock said urgently. He flipped through some of the books, and then discarded them as if he made up his mind. He headed to his chair and started feeling in between the cushion and armrest.

“You shouldn’t even have them,” John pointed out as he straightened out the daily newspaper.

Sherlock paused for a split second; enough time for John to see his face flicker with realization that John now knew he had a secret stash. It was gone in a flash, and Sherlock continued looking through his chair before standing up with a scoff and headed to the table.

“I need one, just one will do. Ugh!” Sherlock stomped his feet and looked around with a scowl on his face. He turned his head towards John and scrunched up his nose. “That or a case. Anything, John, I’m desperate.”

“Why don’t you finish your experiments,” John offered, but all he got was another scowl.

“Boring,” Sherlock said and flopped down on to the soft. He placed his arm over his eyes and sighed dramatically.

John finished with the paper, and then turned around in his seat and looked at his husband. With a sigh, he stood up and walked over to the sofa and then sat down by Sherlock’s knees. He ran his hand down Sherlock’s thigh, and then leaned over and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock only hummed, but kept his arm over his eyes. John pressed a light kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, and started to trail his lips down Sherlock’s jaw. He leaned closer and buried his face against Sherlock’s neck, and started to suck on his pulse point.

Sherlock sighed and removed his hand, but instead of going to John’s hair or neck, or even to his sides, he placed it on John’s shoulders and pushed him away.

“Not now, John,” he said. It wasn’t harsh, or even with annoyance, but John would have preferred that than this flat tone. He leaned away, giving Sherlock enough room to turn on his side and face the back of the sofa, which was exactly what the detective did.

Feeling slightly hurt, John stood up and went to the table. He sat down and opened his laptop and notepad, and began to type up their last case—the one with Canterbury and George Ellis. He wasn’t sure what to call it yet, but he began re-reading his notes, and recalling the beginning.

John was well into recalling the case when he came across a detail in his notepad. He furrowed his brows and looked at it closer. It must be a mistake—it must be. He had written what Sherlock had told him about the murderer—and had seen Lestrade record it too. _Maybe I should ask him._

John pulled out his phone, texted the DI, and waited. Lestrade responded quickly with what he had written down, and what the actual facts were with Canterbury, but according to the text, he wasn’t sure what John was going with his question.

John leaned in his chair and ran a hand over his face. Canterbury was only five and a half feet. Sherlock had said the murderer was well over six, and that he was taller than Ellis, because he struck down. Which meant…they got the wrong guy. Canterbury wasn’t the murderer.

Involved, yes. But the killer, no.

John sighed heavily, a nagging feeling coming back to him.

 _How do I bring this up to Sherlock_ , John pondered. Sherlock would be embarrassed to say the least…and, well, however Sherlock would react, John couldn’t imagine. This never happened before. Sure, Sherlock would miss a detail here and there, but to completely forget about this one detail that said who was the murderer and who wasn’t.

John couldn’t tell Sherlock—at least not yet. _I’ll go to Dr. Willoughby and ask him about Sherlock’s memory—problems? Issues? Whatever they were…_

Making up his mind, John stood up and retrieved his coat. He looked at Sherlock on the sofa, and decided not to bother him. He left quietly, and hurried to Willoughby’s office.

*            *            *

“What can I do for you, Dr. Watson? Is it still about George Ellis?”

John sat down in front of the desk and looked at the doctor. “No, that case is just about finished. That’s not why I’m here…”

“Everything all right?” Willoughby asked attentively. “You voiced some concerns last time.”

John nodded. “It’s just that Sherlock has been forgetting things, still. It’s just small things, except for the case he overlooked something he wouldn’t have missed.”

“Is he on any medication?” John shook his head.

Willoughby seemed to ponder this. “Other than forgetfulness, is he experiencing other symptoms?”

John thought for a moment. “He’s a bit more aggravated, but that could because he’s bored. It’s nothing new. The case did involve drugs that was being used to look like Alzheimer’s,” John explained.

Willoughby’s eyebrows shot up. “How awful. Did he consumed any of them by accident?”

“He was injected by the culprit when he tried to get away. He had forgotten the year and thought it was when we weren’t married, before we were even together.”

Willoughby looked at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry. He could be ingesting something, maybe the drug is in something he’s consuming. Or, it could be something internally,” he said slowly.

John’s head shot up. “You don’t think—.”

“He is too young,” Willoughby assured. “But it’s not unheard of. Watch him, see what he is eating, and if there are any changes in his routine. If his symptoms don’t go away, or increase, bring him in and I could run some tests. I’m afraid there isn’t much to do for something we’re not sure what it is.”

John nodded his gratitude and stood up. “Thank you for your time. I’ll call if—actually,” he paused, thought for only two seconds, and then stepped back into the office. “Do you have an opening later this afternoon?”

*            *            *

John entered the flat through the kitchen and immediately turned the kettle on. He went into the sitting room and hung up his jacket, and saw Sherlock sitting up, his brows brought together tightly in a frown.

“You all right?” John asked casually.

Sherlock looked at him, and his eyes flickered with something. In his hand was his phone, and he was twisting it thoughtfully.

When he didn’t answer right away, John stepped forward. “Sherlock?”

“That was Lestrade, on the phone,” Sherlock started quickly. “He said you had brought up a detail of last month’s case, and assumed I knew about this mistake.”

John looked at him steady, noticing Sherlock’s eyes were definitely conflicting; he saw them flicker with anger and embarrassment, but also with a twinge of confusion.

“Yeah, um, did he tell you what it was?”

“He did.” Sherlock’s voice was now becoming irritated, but John knew it wasn’t directly at him, but at himself, even though it sounded like it was.

“Well, it won’t be hard to fix. Canterbury will still go down for the drugs and messing with patients—malpractice and all that. We just need to find the killer,” John said.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. His eyes flickered over John’s face, as if he was looking for something.  “I made a mistake, John—.”

“Yes, I know,” John gently said. “But no harm came of it. We don’t know if the murderer, Dashwood presumably, has been drugging others, but we can get that information from Canterbury.”

Sherlock looked at him oddly and then stood up. “You—where were you?”

John winced slightly at the change of tone, but remained looking back at him steadily. “Talking to—.”He hadn’t planned on telling Sherlock where he had been right away, but he couldn’t get out of this now.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and waited.

“With Dr. Willoughby,” John said.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Because I—.”

“Do you still think this is Alzheimer’s, John?” John didn’t respond, and his eyes flickered, undoubtedly with confirmation.

“Oh for—that’s ridiculous, John,” Sherlock exclaimed. John inhaled slowly and nodded.

“I know, I just—.”

“You’re thinking too much into it. What did he say, anyway?”

“To keep an eye you. Observe your behavior, and I made—.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I would know if I was losing myself, John.”

John nodded. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Let’s just focus on one thing at a time; what do you want to do about Dashwood? He’s disappeared off the map, and possible Canterbury knows, but—.”

“I already told Lestrade to question him, before we go over there. If he says anything before we get there, then we investigate it.”

“All right…” John headed to the kitchen and quickly prepared his tea. Sherlock followed him, and made his own, taking the last packet out of his box and then tossing the box aside.

“Will you go to the shop soon?”

John nodded, mentally noting the name of the brand, and the other things they needed.

“You want to get dress before we go to Scotland Yard?” John asked quietly. Sherlock nodded and took a big sip of his tea as he headed to their bedroom. He paused behind John and pressed his hand on John’s right shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to snap, John.”

John turned around and faced him. “Before I left to go to Willoughby’s, or just now?”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed slightly, and then relaxed. “Both.”

John nodded and raised his chin up very slightly. Sherlock took the hint and kissed him, leaning into the touch for several seconds before leaning back. John placed his hand on the base of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him back in, deepening the kiss by parting his mouth and allowing Sherlock in.

They kissed for several more seconds, before finally breaking away, and going back to their tea. Sherlock took his to the bedroom, dressed, and came back with the empty mug. They left them in the sink, and John pulled his coat back on, and then they left the flat, calling a taxi and heading to Scotland Yard.

*            *            *

“Has he said anything?” Sherlock asked as the two walked into Lestrade’s office. Lestrade put his donut down and looked at them.

“Sally just spoke to him. He said he hasn’t seen Dashwood in a few months, and claims he doesn’t know what Dashwood does with the drugs.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, Dashwood? Canterbury gives the manipulated ones to the patients, which are provided by Dashwood. Why does he keep some of the drugs?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Canterbury said he doesn’t know, and I believe him. We looked at his phone records emails, but he hasn’t had contact with anybody that seems like they would be Dashwood.”

“Do we have a picture of him, see if Lucy would recognize him?” John asked.

Lestrade shook his head. “His ID picture form Ellis’ hospital was taken down from the records when he was fired. On the records we have from the NHS, apparently his picture was lost.”

“How convenient,” Sherlock muttered.

“So, he is who we are looking for?” Lestrade asked. “Just Dashwood. He’s the killer for sure?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Well, then you two can go home.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows—again—and looked from John to Lestrade. “We just got here—oh.” He looked at John. “I am fine,” he said seriously.

“I know,” John replied confidently. “But I did mention this to Lestrade, and he feels you should rest, and I agree.”

“It’s just the lack of cases, John,” Sherlock claimed, looking from the two of them and stepping back for a wider look. “Or you lot, who can’t notice I make a mistake until a month later!” He turned to John. “I need a case,” he turned to Lestrade. “Anything. This one is wrapped up—again—and will be for sure once you locate Dashwood. I can’t do anything because I don’t have a photograph, so my homeless network is limited. They’ll keep an ear out, have been for a month, but haven’t gotten a whisper. He’s probably out of the country by now, if he was smart.”

Lestrade’s eyes flickered to John. Sherlock turned to him, and then glared. “You know I need a case—.”

“I know. But you were drugged twice, one from the paracetamol and the second from the injection. You need rest, and food; maybe a good shag, if you behave. You’ll get a case tomorrow.”

Sherlock huffed, but then focused on John, eyeing his hand. “And something else. You just glanced at your watch.” He narrowed his eyes, and then scoffed.

“I am not going to get tested, John. That won’t do anything.”

“No, it won’t,” John agreed. “I made an appointment with Willoughby; it’ll be an hour, two at the most. He has a CAT scan there, and everything is set up. Just for me, please.” John looked at him intently.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock glared at him. “No,” he said sternly. “Absolutely not—”

John reached forward and gently put his hand on Sherlock’s arm, but Sherlock flinched away and sent him a murderous glare.

“No—.”

“Please, just—.

“No!”

“Sherlock—.”

“I said, no! That’s final, John—.”

“Will you just listen?” John raised his voice and held Sherlock’s gaze, hardening his own. “Do this for me then. If you are absolutely sure that this is nothing, and that I’m looking too much into it, then I would like you to take the test to prove to me that you’re fine.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and looked at him furiously. “You’re a doctor. Can’t you—.”

“I’m not an expert at this, Sherlock,” John explained, lowering his voice slightly—only slightly.

Sherlock sighed heavily and looked at John, his eyes flickering as he contemplated. John waited patiently, holding his breath.

Sherlock looked at him for nearly a minute, the tension increasing. Finally, he blinked heavily and nodded, albeit his shoulders were still tense.

“Fine. But you’re going to look like even a greater idiot when we get the results. And you owe me when we get home.” Sherlock turned around and left without a word to Lestrade.

John nodded to Lestrade, and then followed. “Looking forward to it,” John said with a slightly smirk, but he was starting to feel nervous.

He really wanted to believe Sherlock—hell, he hoped he was an idiot in this case; it would be far better than the alternative. He just wanted to get this over with.

*            *            *

Sherlock sat in front of Dr. Willoughby desk, and glanced at the bookshelf behind the doctor.

“You have just as much English literature as medical texts and journals. How contradictory,” Sherlock remarked. Willoughby looked at him curiously and glanced at his bookshelf.

“It balances things out. The same medical diagnosis day in and day out can be exhausting, so unwinding with an Austen or a Milton has proved to be quite fulfilling.”

Sherlock hummed in response, and John could sense Sherlock didn’t care so much about fictional text. He smirked to himself, and settled in his seat behind Sherlock.

“Would you like some tea before we start?” Willoughby asked.

John shook his head, but Sherlock looked at him with a smile, the one he saved for anyone who was getting on his nerves the minute they spoke (or the one he faked when trying to be polite), and nodded.

“I’ll bring it in.” Willoughby left and was back quickly, setting down the tray with the additions. Sherlock prepared his tea and took a sip, and then looked up at Willoughby, who took a seat in front of him. The doctor had a computer with a camera on it’s top, where he was going to record the interview, and write the answers down on paper that rested beside it.

“All right, please state your name.”

“Sherlock Watson-Holmes.”

“Full name?” Willoughby looked over the screen and at John. John minutely shook his head.

Sherlock scoffed. “Oh for—I don’t use my _full_ name. It’s too long and utterly silly.”

Willoughby raised an eyebrow; Sherlock scoffed again.

“William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes.”

John nodded, and Willoughby focused back to the screen.

“Repeat these words back to me and remember them: truck, cabin, spoon.”

“Large motor vehicle, small house made out of logs, and feeding utensil with a small oval-like bowl.”

John sighed and ran his hand over his face. Willoughby looked at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

“The three words I said are just fine. Repeat them?”

Sherlock sighed as if repeating such words were an insult to his intellect. “Truck, cabin, spoon.”

Willoughby continued. “What is this instrument around my neck?”

Sherlock looked at Willoughby’s neck and paused for a total of three seconds. “A stethoscope.”

“Count backwards from 100 by 7.”

Sherlock sighed as if he was bored. “100, 93, 86, 79, 73, 66, 60, 54—I mean,” Sherlock paused, furrowed his brows, and was silent for a few seconds. “100…93, 86, 79, 72… 65, 58, 51, 44, 37, 30, 23, 16, 9, 2, negative 5, negative 12—.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Holmes. What did you do last Christmas?”

“We spent it at home, with some people over. It was as expected.”

“Could you elaborate? Who was there?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I didn’t pay attention, probably Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly.”

Willoughby looked at John, who nodded.

“All right then.” Willoughby wrote a few more things, and then looked up at Sherlock.

“Are you physically active?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Yes.”

“Exactly what kind of—.”

“I run around London, chasing after criminals. It isn’t a routine, so to speak.”

John nodded behind Sherlock.

Willoughby cleared his throat.

“When is your anniversary?”

“January 29th, 2010.”

John reluctantly shook his head. Willoughby opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock must have known John’s answer and scoffed.

“You should be more specific. We meet January 29th, 2010, and we got married a year ago, February 1st. The 29th was the middle of the week, and apparently a wedding on that day is unacceptable—.”

“Sherlock—.”

“It’s fine. I’ll take that as answer,” Willoughby kindly said. “Finally, the words I told you to remember?”

“Truck, cabin, spoon,” Sherlock replied smugly. Willoughby recorded it and then closed the computer and took the folder of answers with him.

“I’ll be back in a moment, gentlemen. I’ll check the answers with the database.” He left them alone, and John slowly stood up and took a seat besides Sherlock.

Both of them were silent for a couple of minutes, and then John spoke slowly.

“I realize, I may be getting ahead…”

“Clearly.” John ignored Sherlock’s flat tone.

“I just want to be assured. Because then I can relax, and we can get on with our lives, alright?”

“Fine.”

“Sherlock?”

“What?”

“I’ll owe you when we get back to the flat.” Out of the corner of John’s eye, he saw Sherlock smirk lightly. Before he could go on, Willoughby was back, his face neutrally relaxed. He sat down behind his desk and regarded the two men.

“Sherlock’s CAT scan doesn’t show anything,” he began steadily. “Now, taking into account his age, any kind of dementia is unlikely, but it’s not unheard of. But I think it’s safe to say that Sherlock does not have any kind of dementia or Alzheimer’s. As of now.”

John notable relaxed in his seat and unclenched his fists. “And the oral test?”

“There were a couple of areas that may draw concern, but again, his age plays a large contributing factor, and he is getting older—”

Sherlock scoffed.

“—And his momentary forgetfulness could be explained by exhaustion or stress. I’d recommend a nice vacation.” Willoughby smiled at them, his expression honest and clear.

“We’ll consider that.” Sherlock stood and put his coat back on. He regarded the doctor for a moment, and then stretched out his hand. They shook hands quickly, and then John followed.

“Thank you for your time,” John said.

“Of course. If you have any questions, you can call.” Willoughby nodded to them, and then they left, and headed to the main street to call a cab.

“Now,” Sherlock said as he settled in his seat. “What will you be owing me?”

John smirked and leaned to the side in his seat. He whispered quickly in Sherlock’s ear, and as he leaned back, his smirk grew into a smile as he noticed Sherlock blush crimson—like blood. How fitting, for Sherlock Holmes.

John settled back in his seat and his smile faltered slightly. “Oh, but first, we need to run to the shop.” Sherlock sighed, and John grinned wider. He felt utterly lighter, and couldn’t wait to put this whole ordeal behind them. He was unaware of the fact that things were going to get a lot worse.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *           

**Late December**

“Finally!” Sherlock exclaimed and reached for the box of his favorite teabags and immediately ripped it open. His tea had been recalled several months ago, and he had to go back to his usual, which apparently wasn’t up to his standards anymore.

“Oi, don’t make a mess,” John hastily said.

Sherlock huffed behind him. “Months without tea, John. It’s an abomination.”

“It’s called a shortage of ingredients,” John offered. “Must have been bloody expensive ones, to take the whole brand off the shelves for several months. Besides, you have had tea, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Of course I noticed. Quite hard not too, as it wasn’t nearly as good as these.” Sherlock ripped open a package of a teabag and poured the all ready boiling water into his mug. He prepared his tea and then sauntered to his chair, sitting down, placing his tea by his arm, and placing his fingers under his chin.

“So got any cases?” John asked as he brought his tea into the sitting room and sat down in his own chair.

“None, John. Not a single one. Not even a client,” Sherlock rambled just as the doorbell rang.

“Spoke to soon,” John grinned. “Go get dress,” he said as he stood back up and went downstairs. He opened the front door and was greeted by Lucy Ellis, the daughter of George and Florence from the misdiagnosis case—that was what John was referring to it as, since it wasn’t Alzheimer’s, which was a relief on it’s own.

“Lucy, how are you?” John greeted as he led the young woman in.

“I’m alright,” she said. John led her upstairs and motioned her to sit on the sofa.

“Would you like tea?”

“No thanks, I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

Sherlock walked in, and upon sighting Lucy on the sofa, he softened his expression.

“Ms. Ellis,” he greeted kindly. John beamed at him and took a seat at the table and turned to face Lucy. Sherlock sat beside him, and waited.

“Um, it’s about my mother…”

“How has she been, since the drugs left her system?” John asked.

“That went well. It was several months ago, and she dealt with it quite impressively. It wasn’t what we thought, that is, until now. The symptoms are back, and they are happening quicker. They only appeared a month ago, when before it was over a few months. The doctors think it’s really Alzheimer’s this time, but I don’t think it is. I read my dad’s journals, and the symptoms are the same, they are just occurring more often.”

“You think she is being drugged again, probably by the same people.”

Lucy nodded. “I know Canterbury was arrested, and they are still looking for Dashwood. Have you heard anything about that?”

John shook his head. “Unfortunately, there hasn’t been any sign of him. We may be able to help, but looking at how long it’s been, nothing may come up now.”

“Anything, Mr. Holmes,” Lucy pleaded.

“John, please,” John corrected.

Lucy smiled softly. “Thank you, John. I went through my mother’s mediation and food and restocked everything, but the symptoms just didn’t go away. I even bought different brands from the things I could, but she’s quite picky and now since she doesn’t understand what’s happening, she prefers her preferences, and wouldn’t eat anything she doesn’t recognize. The doctors say it’s a comfort thing for them—the familiar. She in a home now, just temporarily, but the symptoms are still occurring.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Ms. Ellis, we’ll look into it. We’ll start with the nursing home, and would like to take a look at your mother’s place—unless she lives with you?”

“She lived with me after she came back,” Lucy said slowly. “You can look anytime, and for as long as you like.”

“I’m certain it’s Dashwood. He worked with your father, right?”

Lucy nodded.

“Do you know what he looks like?”

She nodded again. “I haven’t seen him in years, but his face was quite distinct, although he may have changed is his looks since then.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and grinned. “Go to Scotland Yard—I’ll notify Lestrade, and he’ll pair you with an illustrator. Describe him as best you can. A face to this man would be most helpful.”

Lucy stood up, her face beaming despite her eyes still saddened. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes!”

The pair nodded to her, and she left quickly. Sherlock reached for his coat, and handed John’s to him.

“To the nursing home, first?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “You have her number?” John nodded. “Ask for the name and address. Florence was drugged by her medication last time, and once we get the drawing, I think my theory will work out.”

“You have one already?”

“Only a few,” Sherlock said with a smirk. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and then headed down the stairs, John close behind him.

*            *            *

John watched from a distance as Sherlock circled the main room of the nursing home. There were fairly large windows on two of the walls with warm green curtains tied to the sides, encasing the room with a greyish light. There were a few patients here and there with a visitor, and in the corner was Florence, sitting by herself, and reading a book. John saw a glimpsed of the spine, and recognized the name. Austen.

 _At least she still has her preferences,_ he thought.

Sherlock disappeared from sight for a minute, and then reappeared, his face contorted with frustration. He walked up to John and whispered harshly.

“Nothing. We should have gone to Lucy’s flat first, see what she has there, and then make a comparison. And we may have to wait for the illustration to be finished, which may take hours, since artists are such perfectionist even though lives are at stake—.”

“Breath, Sherlock,”

Sherlock did, and relaxed—just slightly though. “The medication is locked up of course, and noted how much is given to the patients and so forth. As of now, Florence isn’t taking any, since Lucy thought it was that that was causing her symptoms, but Dashwood is giving it to her in some other way.”

“Right…so is it just Florence, or could all of these people be drugged?”

“I don’t think so. Dashwood wanted revenge on Ellis, so he drugged his wife, and made his life endlessly exhausting.”

“Well, I like to think you’ll take care of me, no matter how endlessly exhausting,” John pointed out lightly.

Sherlock looked at him. “You won’t get Alzheimer’s, John. I’ll make sure of it.”

John grinned at that. “I’m sure you will. So now what? Do we just wait?”

Sherlock stilled and looked over John’s shoulder. John turned around, and saw a man staring at them.

“Sherlock, what are—”

The man turned on his heel and sprinted off, and then Sherlock darted after him. John cursed and quickly followed them. The man was apparently fast, and had a great deal of distance ahead of Sherlock. John quickened his pace as he saw Sherlock disappear out a back exit. He hurried towards it and stepped outside.

Sherlock was still running after the man, and was catching up to him quickly. John ran after them, and nearly caught up with them. Suddenly, Sherlock lost his footing and slipped on a black patch of ice. He fell with his feet in the air and landed hard on his back. John hurried towards him, paused, and looked down at his husband as the other man ran off.

“Go after him, John!” Sherlock groaned and slowly pulled himself up. Satisfied for now, John turned on his heal, but was greeted with a thorough punch to the jaw. He fell back, and regained his footing and lunged at the man. The man fell onto his back and wrestled form John’s grip.

“You think you can get away, now? John struggled with him and restrained him with ease. The man huffed with defeat and winced as John held his hands behind his back. He pushed him forward, but the man had apparently caught his breath and twisted from John’s grasp.

He lunged forward, grabbed the closest thing he could get his hands on—an abandoned tire iron—and swung. John ducked, but heard the iron hit a skull, and then a curse followed by a groan, then silence.

He looked behind him to see Sherlock back onto his back, his eyes closed and his head bleeding. He was clearly unconscious. John rounded to the man, furious, and lunged at him. One fist to his head, and he was knocked out.

John huffed and rushed to Sherlock’s side.

“Sherlock? Can you hear me?”

Sherlock only groaned, and slowly opened his eyes.

“Husband…”

“Yes I’m your husband. Can you see how many fingers I’m holding?”

Sherlock squinted and groaned.

“All right, I’ll call an ambulance—.”

“No, no I’m all right, John.”

“Lay still, Sherlock. Let me examine your head.” John looked closer, and blessed his lucky stars. It wasn’t deep enough for stitches.

“All right, I’ll take you home. But I’m going to be watching you like a hawk.”

“Fine…can I lie here for a moment?” Sherlock asked tiredly.

“Yes, but don’t fall asleep. I need to call Lestrade. I think we found Dashwood,” John added with a triumphant grin.

Sherlock grinned weakly. “Good…” 

*            *            *

“What do you mean it’s the wrong guy?” John snapped to Lestrade on the phone. Sherlock groaned beside him their bed, and John lowered his voice. “Does he look like the illustration Lucy had done?”

“I’m afraid not, John. The man’s name is Eli Bennett. He said Dashwood told him what to do, and that was it. Planted a few manipulated drugs in Florence’s medication, but he wasn’t drugging her before she came to the nursing home.”

“Well, then how was she drugged at home?”

“Tea, John. I need tea.” Sherlock mumbled.

“In a moment, Sherlock.”

“He doesn’t know. And he has no contact info of Dashwood,” Lestrade said.

“Of course he doesn’t. All right, thanks Greg. Can you give us a copy of the illustration?”

“Sure, I’ll drop by tomorrow. Tell Sherlock to get some rest.”

“Will do. Bye.” John hung up and turned to Sherlock.

“Too short to be the murderer,” Sherlock whispered.

“Tall enough to whack you in the head.” John ran his hand through Sherlock’s curls. “Feeling all right?”

“Tired.”

“Yeah, but stay awake for a little longer, and then I’ll let you sleep. But I’ll—”

“Wake me up in an hour, then in two, and so on.”

“Quite right. I’ll bring you your tea.”

John left the room and was quickly back, tea in hand. He set it on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Awake still?”

“Yes, John.”

“All right. Here’s your tea, and then you can go to sleep.”

Sherlock took the cup, drank most of it, and then lied down fully onto the pillows.

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock. I’ll wait here.”

*            *            *

During the night, John successfully woke Sherlock up at the correct intervals, and finally after midnight, he settled beside Sherlock, and the two fell asleep in a bundle of limbs and tired kisses, the night slipping away into sleep.

*            *            *

“Sherlock?” John whispered the next morning. Sherlock made an incoherent sound and shifted his face into the pillows. It was well into the morning, and despite the mild concussion, Sherlock would have gotten up at least to stretch. But he hadn’t moved while John showered and ate, and he couldn’t help but feel a little wary.

“Sherlock Holmes-Watson, if you don’t get up in a minute, I’ll drag you to the hospital for proper screening and testing.”

Sherlock sat up straight and glared at John. “I’m up,” he said hoarsely.

“Good.” John looked at him closer. “Feeling all right?”

Sherlock nodded. “My head hurts.”

“Well, I’ll get you some paracetamol. It might help.”

John quickly left, and came back with water, a cup of Sherlock’s tea, and two pills. He handed each other to Sherlock, who took the pills with water, and then took his tea.

John left and cleaned the dishes, and then went back to the room to find Sherlock getting dress.

“Better?”

“Much. Still a bit tired.”

“It’ll pass. Just take it slow today. No cases.”

Sherlock’s head whipped up. “But what about Dashwood?”

“Dashwood is off the radar still, and Lestrade will drop off his picture today. Just rest, doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered downward and raised an eyebrow. John blushed slightly. “Not those kinds of orders.”

Sherlock shrugged and walked past John to leave the room, smirking slightly. He suddenly stopped in his tracks, and swayed. John was behind him in a second and placed his arm on his lower back. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he slowly opened them. His face grimaced with frustration and he walked away, severing the contact.

“Bored already,” Sherlock mumbled and lied on the sofa.

He napped for rest of the morning, and around lunchtime, John sat beside him and gently shook him awake. When Sherlock opened his eyes, John froze.

The usual green-grey swirl with blue tinges was now a dull grey, cloudy in a metaphorical sense, and automatically quizzically.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at him oddly and leaned away slightly. John furrowed his brows and looked at him closely. The cut on his forehead wasn’t bleeding anymore, and he had removed the gauze earlier that morning. Sherlock’s eyes flickered over John’s face for something, but couldn’t seem to find it. His brows remained drawn together.

“Sherlock? Can you understand me?”

Sherlock face twitched slightly and he nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Ok, that’s it. I’m taking you to the hospital—actually,” John paused. “We’re going to Dr. Willoughby, do you remember who that is?”

Sherlock didn’t react, and remained looking confused, a look John didn’t like on Sherlock’s face, even if it was amusing at times. This was not amusing.

John helped Sherlock sit up, gave him his coat and scarf. Sherlock dressed slowly, but kept his eye on John. John led his downstairs, and to the curb. He hailed at cab, said the address, and then helped Sherlock get seated.

Halfway to the doctor’s office, Sherlock froze in his seat and turned to John. John waited and watched him carefully. Sherlock’s face slowly relaxed to a familiar expression, and then to confusion, then to realization.

“Oh god—.”

“It’s fine. I’m taking you to Dr. Willoughby’s. It’s probably just the concussion.”

“Probably?”

“Yes, Sherlock, probably. You’re still young remember. And thinking too much into it.”

“I told you that.”

“Yes, well since you remember _that,_ I’m sure your fine.” John gave him a reassuring grin and took his hand. Sherlock squeezed it and looked out the window.

They arrived to the office and John signed them in, grateful this doctor took last minute appointments. They didn’t have to wait long and were welcomed into his familiar office and took their seats.

“Long time no see, gentlemen. Although, that’s probably a good thing. What can I do for you?”

“We had a bit of a scare this morning,” John began. “Last evening, Sherlock suffered from a mild concussion, and he was fine through the night, but then this morning he woke up with a headache, which is normal. But then he took a nap—.”

“And I didn’t recognize John. I didn’t know who I was or what was going on,” Sherlock added.

“Well, we could run some tests. It’s probably just the concussion, but based off the symptoms several months ago, it’s all right to be cautious. We’ll start with a CAT scan, and go from there. You don’t have any plans?”

“No, we’re here for as long as necessary,” John provided.

*            *            *

The pair sat in front of Willoughby in similar positions from all those months ago, with John behind Sherlock and Willoughby behind a computer screen.

“Name?”

“Sherlock Watson-Holmes.”

“Full name?” Willoughby looked over the screen and at John. John minutely shook his head.

Sherlock scoffed. “Again?”

Willoughby raised an eyebrow; Sherlock sighed.

“William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes.”

 “Repeat these words back to me and remember them: truck, cabin, spoon.”

“Truck, cabin, spoon.”

“What is this instrument around my neck?”

Sherlock looked at Willoughby’s neck and stilled. He narrowed his eyes, and shifted his head slightly as if to look at John, but made up his mind and stared at it. “A…stethoscope?”

“Are you asking or are you sure?”

“It could be because of the concussion,” John reminded the doctor. Willoughby nodded assuring and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock stared at the instrument, and then nodded.

“I’m sure.”

“Count backwards from 100 by 7.”

Sherlock sighed as if he was bored. “100, 93, 86, 79, 73, 66, 60, 54—I mean,” Sherlock paused, furrowed his brows, and was silent for a few seconds. “100…93… 86, 79…72… 65…58, 51, 44, 37, 30, 23, 16, 9…2…”

“Good, Mr. Holmes. What did you do last Christmas?”

“We spent it at my parents’ home. My brother was there and John’s wife. It was…uneventful.”

John’s face paled and looked at Willoughby, and slowly shook his head. Sherlock caught the exchange and looked at John.

“Problem?”

John cleared his throat. “We, er, that was about three years ago.”

Sherlock scoffed. “It’s the concussion, John, not Alzheimer’s. He rounded onto Willoughby. “Why are we here, anyway?”

Willoughby looked at John. Sherlock huffed with disbelief. “That’s not the Alzheimer’s, I know _why_ we are here It’s because John is such a worrier and jumps to conclusions.” He turned to John. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

“I know,” John whispered. “This is just cautionary. This morning, you gave me a fright, so just sit there and answer his questions.”

Sherlock huffed and turned back to face Willoughby, glaring him murderously.

Willoughby cleared his throat. “When is your anniversary?”

“January 29th, 2010.”

John nodded and ran a hand over his face.

Willoughby doted down some notes and finished typing, and then looked up. “Finally, the words I told you to remember?”

“Truck, cabin, fork,” Sherlock replied. Willoughby raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock flinched.

“Spoon,” he corrected himself.

“Okay, then. I’ll check with the database, and see what these answers indicate. It’s probably just the concussion. I want to do a physical examine, if that’s all right. It’s just through that door. You can just undress your torso, and I’ll be meeting you there shortly.

*            *            *

Sherlock sat on the examination table, after having the CAT scan, and was awaiting a procedure examination. He sighed agitated.

“What’s the point of this, John? I thought it was just going to be a CAT scan and some questions?”

“This is just procedure, Sherlock. It’s just a check up. Besides, they need to print the images and examine them. This is something to do in the meantime.”

Willoughby entered the room and stood beside Sherlock. “All right, Mr. Holmes, we’ll get started—.”

“ _Watson_. _Watson-_ Holmes.”

“Apologies.” Willoughby looked at John. “You’ll stay?”

“I can leave if you want privacy?” John looked at Sherlock teasingly.

Sherlock shrugged. “You’ve seen it all before, John. Although, I am rather thirsty.”

John grinned and kissed his temple. “Be right back.”

John left and headed to the waiting room. The office was rather large, and a line of patients was filling up, most around the tea station. Finally reaching the table, most of the packets were gone, and the ones remaining would be an insult if Sherlock were given one of them. Sighing, John took a bottle of water and headed back to the exam room.

He opened the room and found Dr. Willoughby disposing gloves into the bin in the far corner, and the CAT scans were placed on the light screen, but it wasn’t on. He spotted Sherlock starring at the door, and slowly lifted his gaze at John.

“They didn’t have any tea you would like, so I got you some water.” John looked at Sherlock, but he didn’t respond. John furrowed his brows and glanced up at Willoughby briefly before looking back at Sherlock. But Willoughby’s expression caught him off guard, and he looked back at him.

“I’m very sorry, John.” He nodded to the scans and turned on the lights. The images were very obvious, even to John. John’s eyes widened and he looked at Sherlock, who stared back at him without recognizing him.

“When did…”

“Just a moment after you left. The scans show it is very small, but it is Early on set. I am sorry…”

John squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled through his nose. “Months ago—it wasn’t on the scans—.”

“They were very settle back then, not necessarily showing up on the tests.”

John repeated that in his head several times, looking from Willoughby to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him without an emotion, taking John off guard. “He’s too young,” John whispered.

Willoughby took a step closer, but remained a relative distance from him. “He’ll likely come back in a few hours, maybe a few days, or…”

“Or a few years,” John added. He inhaled deeply and pinched his nose. _This isn’t happening—this isn’t happening—wake up, this must be some kind of dream—_

“John?”

John’s head snapped up and he looked at Sherlock. Sherlock was looking at him, his eyes flickering with confusion and he brows knitted together. John held his tongue, and waited, keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s expression.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You remind me of someone…”

John inhaled sharply and turned around. He raised a shaky hand to his mouth and covered it, stifling a sob. He pinched his nose bridge, inhaled deeply several times, and wiped his face. Tears prickled his eyes, so he squeezed them shut until the feeling went away. After a moment, he turned and faced Willoughby.

“I should take him home…”

“That could help. Get some rest. You can call in the next day or so and make an appointment. We’ll need to discuss what you can do from here, what medications he may be able to take, and talk about being a caretaker.”

John nodded, but barely grasped what Willoughby was saying. The doctor left the two for privacy, and in silence, John helped Sherlock get dress. He tied his scarf around his neck, and held his tongue, avoiding Sherlock’s deducing gaze.

Sherlock didn’t question John as he was led out of the office and placed in a taxi, which was even more unnerving. Whatever was going on in his head, it seemed he didn’t know what to think of the information he was seeing. John stared out of the window, clenching his fist on his knee during the whole ride.

*            *            *

Once at their flat, John managed to get Sherlock seated on the sofa while he hung up their coats. There was a knock on the door, voices murmuring, and then Lucy appeared with her mother beside her.

“Hi, John. Sorry, I don’t mean to show up like this, but I wanted to see how the case was going, and…”

“Oh, Lucy I—.” John cut himself off, and glanced at the two women. “Would you like some tea?”

Lucy shook her head silently, and led her mother the sofa. She glanced at Sherlock, and then looked at John, a question on her lips.

“I’m sorry, I was going to call, but…” John trailed off, and then nodded to the kitchen. “Can we have a word?”

“Um, sure.” Lucy looked at her mother, who was looking around the room. Satisfied she wasn’t going anywhere, she followed John into the kitchen; John kept the sliding doors open, just in case.

“Um, about your case—.”

“The DI at Scotland Yard said it was wrong guy you caught at the nursing home, but he’s somehow involved…”

John nodded. “Yeah, Sherlock hit his head and, um,” John inhaled deeply. “Back in the spring, when we were solving your father’s murder, he showed suspicious symptoms, and I visited that doctor you recommended, but it turned out to be the same drugs your mother was exposed to. However, the symptoms did appear afterwards for a short while, but it wasn’t nearly as bad, and then he was back to normal. Dr. Willoughby said he as early onset…”

Lucy gasped and looked at him sympathetically. “Oh! I’m sorry!”

“It’s—we just found out today. He’s not himself at the moment, but I’ll still try to find your father’s killer—.”

“No, Dr. Watson, you don’t have to. Scotland Yard can handle it. If there is anything you need, anything at all, you can call me.” She stepped forward and hugged him; John leaned into it slightly, and then pulled away.

“Thanks, Lucy. I’m sorry about your mother. Watch what she’s eating and drinking; the nursing home will be going through everyone’s medication to make sure nothing was altered. Again, I’m really sorry.” John lowered his tired gaze and took a steady breath.

Lucy squeezed his shoulder gently, and then left. She went to her mother, only to find her talking with Sherlock. John stepped out and saw the two, raising an eyebrow.

“She barely makes conversation,” Lucy noted.

The two were what looked like a deep conversation, although Sherlock’s eyes flickered from Florence’s face to John’s, as if unsure with what was going on, but he did look like himself—he looked uncomfortable talking with a stranger, and as if he was on the verge of a boredom pout.

“I prefer the Wife of Bath’s Tale, but the Miller’s Tale is quite funny,” Florence said.

Sherlock nodded slowly. “I never read his tales. Never saw the appeal, since it’s in Old English, what’s the point…”

John smirked slightly, finding Sherlock’s attitude familiar. Lucy looked at him apologetically. “That’s all she talks about. Chaucer and Austen—.”

John’s eyes widened and he looked at Lucy. “Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales?”

Lucy nodded and furrowed her brows. John recalled the first time they had met, back at Scotland Yard.

_“Austen and Chaucer come around.”_

John turned to Lucy. “You mother told us about Austen and Chaucer visiting, and I can’t believe I’m seeing it now, but Chaucer must be Canterbury, who the police already have.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “You think this Austen character is actually someone she knew?”

“Is there anyone with that name, Austin, or maybe Jane, or James…”

Lucy gasped. “Dashwood’s a character. But there aren’t any main male characters with that name, and this Dashwood’s first name is Kevin.”

John thought for a moment. “Alzheimer patients don’t—usually—hallucinate, they just confuse people…so whoever your mother was talking about was a real person.” He clenched his fist and sighed. If only they had figured out this sooner, then maybe Sherlock wouldn’t—

_Wait, was Sherlock being drugged?_

John turned to Lucy. “Did your mother have a CAT scan?”

Lucy shook her head. “I’m not sure if Dr. Willoughby every recommended one, and we had switched doctors, since his office was far away. The others didn’t think it was necessary either because of her age. And we just couldn’t afford it. She’s claustrophobic anyway…”

John sighed with defeat. Sherlock’s scan actually showed some kind of damage, so he wasn’t being drugged. Not this time.

“I’ll let Lestrade know about this—it’s not much really…”

“Anything will do, I guess. I’ll just leave you two.” She went over to her mother and took her hand.

“Have a good night,” John said.

She turned to John, and smiled gently. “Take care, Dr. Watson.”

Once he was alone, Sherlock looked at him, but didn’t recognize him or say anything. John looked at him for a moment longer, and then sighed.

John led Sherlock to their bedroom, and the detective seemed to be more at ease once he was in his familiar setting. He dressed for bed and lied down, muttering about a headache. John didn’t speak—which Sherlock didn’t seem to notice—and watched silently as Sherlock fell asleep.

During the night, John didn’t sleep once. He searched tips for caretaking, clinical trials, and even debated several times whether or not to all Mycroft, but talked himself out several times after, noting Sherlock needed to know his diagnosis first before bringing his brother in—whenever that’ll be. Besides, Mycroft probably already knew.

Early the next morning, John sat on his side of the bed, lost in his thoughts, when Sherlock shifted. The taller man groaned and rolled onto his back. He blinked open his eyes, squinted at the early morning sunrays, and then closed them.

“Close the blinds, John.”

John stilled at the sound of his voice. He carefully stood up and closed the blinds, then turned on the bedside table lamp and looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock mumbled incoherently, and sluggishly raised his head and looked at John. He glanced over his body in a second, and then his eyes widened, narrowed, and then he sat up, keeping his gaze on John.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice nothing close to being laced with confusion.

John swallowed tightly, and looked at his husband. “We need to talk.”

*            *            *

John paced around the room, nearly pulling his hair out as he called Sherlock for the umpteenth time. Upon reaching his voicemail, he slammed the phone shut and banged his fists into the table.

“Fuck!” He inhaled sharply, then reached for his phone, and called again, but once again ending up with voicemail.

“Sherlock, answer me! You can’t just run off, not in your condition. We’ll figure this out, I promise you, and we are not giving up. _I_ am not giving up. Talk to me, please.”

He hung up and hung his head. Telling him was just as horrible as he had imagined it. Sherlock had denied it of course, claimed it was just the concussion. But after hearing about the CAT scans and the fact that his memory was foggy, he stormed off, brushing past Mrs. Hudson in the process. Telling her was nearly just as hard. She had insisted to stay with John until Sherlock got back, or to help look for him, but John knew it was no use; Sherlock was likely a mile away, and wouldn’t be back soon. John also knew that Sherlock needed time to figure this all out—while being away from John. That hurt more than John wanted to admit, but refused to stop pacing until Sherlock got back, even if the space was understandable and needed.

John took a deep breath, and then reached for his jacket and hurried out the front door. He was going to find Sherlock, before Sherlock lost himself.

*            *            *

It was nearly midnight by the time John came back to the flat. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and made his way up the stairs, alone.

He called Greg and Mycroft—who knew about the situation already—and waited with his phone in his hand for any updates as he searched across London. But Sherlock couldn’t be found. John had no idea if he was lucid or not, if he lost his way home or got confused, or didn’t want to be found.

He turned on the kettle, prepared his tea, and sat heavily into his chair, setting his cup beside him. It turned cold a few minutes later, forgotten about. John hung his head and cupped his face, breathing slowly. His eyes prickled and he quickly inhaled sharply and wiped his face. He shivered, so he stood up and prepared a fire. It was freezing tonight, and Sherlock only had his coat; he had forgotten his scarf.

The door below opened and closed, and sluggish footsteps made their way up the stairs. John stood up and faced the doorway, holding his breath.

Sherlock stepped forward into the dim-lit room and looked at John.

“My name is Sherlock Watson-Holmes,” he said slowly. “I live at 221B Baker Street. You are my husband.” He paused, and John slowly let out his breath and nodded.

Sherlock swallowed tightly and lowered his gaze for a brief moment, and then he looked back at John, his grey eyes reflecting the burning embers. “John—”

John stepped forward. Sherlock came up to him and wrapped his arms around him, shivering. His coat was drenched, and his skin was too cold, like marble.

“C’mon. Let’s get you warmed up.”

*            *            *

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders tightly and muttered soothing words. “It’s going to be all right. It’s going to be fine…”

Sherlock snuggled closer to him, tightening the blanket around is chest and burrowing the side of his face against John’s chest. They were leaning against Sherlock’s chair, with their legs outstretched in front of them, closer to the fire.

“It happened again. It—.” He raised his head and looked at John, his eyes widening. “The Alzheimer’s—this is what it is, isn’t it?”           

John tried to keep his face calm, but the small flinch told Sherlock everything. He gasped and clenched his jaw tight, and then clenched his fists over his lap.

“The case—what about—.”

“Lestrade is on it. He’ll find Dashwood.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “Could I be being drugged?”

John shook his head. “You had a CAT scan…”

“I don’t remember—.” Sherlock’s breathing hitched, and John leaned forward, gathering Sherlock into his arms again.

“I told you, this morning. You denied it, and then you panicked, and left. God—I was so worried.”

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly for a few seconds and then looked up at John, his eyes glistening amber and green against the orange burning glare behind him. “What would you do, if the thing that defines who you are was taken away?”

John’s heart panged and he tightened his hold around Sherlock. He didn’t know what to say, but he knew he wanted to be as close with Sherlock as possible, and knew Sherlock wanted that too.

After several minutes, Sherlock leaned back slightly and gazed up at John. “I need to be with you—we need, can we—”

John swallowed tightly. He hadn’t thought of that, but now thinking of it, his heart sank.

“We shouldn’t—”

“John? What is it? Why can’t we—”

“We shouldn’t because it’s just not a good idea.”

Sherlock’s face-hardened and he leaned away, diminishing their contact. “You don’t want to be with me—”

“No—”

“You’re disgusted. Embarrassed. I—.”

“Dammit Sherlock, that’s not it,” John raised his voice. Sherlock flinched back and glared at him.

“Then what is it?” he asked in a clipped tone.

John inhaled deeply. “You might…not be there during the whole time. And if that happens, it’ll be nonconsensual, and just wrong. I—I can’t do that.”           

Sherlock’s face softened and he lowered his gaze. “Oh.” His voice had dramatically lowered, and he was starting to bit his lip and clench his fists. John reached for his hands and pulled him back towards him. Sherlock did so reluctantly, and then relaxed against his chest.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded and let out a ragged breath. “This isn’t fair, John. We were—,” he swallowed tightly, and let out another shaky breath. “We were supposed to grow old together—.”

“Hey,” John said steadily and leaned back so he could look into Sherlock’s eyes. “We will. I promise you, we will. We’ll find a way, okay?” His gaze was hard and fierce, and Sherlock nodded.

“Okay.” He paused, and then leaned back against John’s chest. “I love you, John.”

John buried his nose into Sherlock’s curls, breathing in his scene. “I love you too.” He inhaled deeply, and then thought of something. Without thinking it through, he took of his tag and clipped it around Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock looked down at it on his chest and then looked up at John, bewildered. “What are you doing?”

“Just in case,” John said in a clip tone. “In case I’m not in the room, try to look at yourself to deduce who you are, or where you are. This has our names on it, I’m sure you’ll find use of it.”

Sherlock swallowed tightly and wrapped his hand around the tag, trialing his finger along the inscription. He leaned forward and kissed John deeply, deepening the kiss quickly and finding comfort in the brief closeness.

“Remind me who you are, John. Every day, please do that for me—.”

“Of course,” John said. He trailed his hand down Sherlock’s check and cupped it gently. “I’ll remind you of who I am every day. No matter what.” He pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s, and felt him breath against his check. Sherlock leaned closer and rested his forehead against John’s shoulder. They fell into a comfortable silence, never letting go of each other.

*            *            *

The next morning, John walked by the bathroom and overheard Sherlock talking to himself. He paused by the door, and froze when he realized what Sherlock was saying.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m forty years old. I’ll be forty-one soon—seven days, to be exact. John is my husband. We’ve been married for two years; it’ll be three years in thirty…thirty-two days. I live at…221B Baker Street. Mrs. Turn—Mrs. _Hudson_ is the landlady. My name is Sherlock Holmes; John is my husband. We live at 221B Baker Street…”

John walked past the door before he could eavesdrop further, ashamed at himself for feeling put out when Sherlock didn’t include his last name.

*            *            *

**January 6 th **

John set a plate of breakfast in front of Sherlock, just the way he liked it, and then placed his tea in front of him. Sherlock picked at the perfect eggs, drank the tea with ease, and nibbled at the toast.

“It’s your birthday, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glanced at him, and scoffed. “Birthdays are boring.”

John clenched his jaw and took a bite from his own plate. “What would you like to do today?” he asked after a moment.

Sherlock stood up roughly, and reached for his coat. “I have something I need to do.”

John, startled, sat up and followed him. He grabbed him by the elbow and held him still. “Let’s stay inside—.”

“No, I need to do something, John.”

“What? Can I help you—.”

“No, on my own.” Sherlock twisted out of John’s grip and fled down the stairs. John grabbed his coat and chased after him, but by the time he made it outside, a cab was speeding off.

John cursed and pulled out his phone, only to find he already had a message.

**Looks like he is heading to St. Bart’s.**

**\- MH**

John sent out a quick text of gratitude, and then hurried and hailed a cab. He reached Bart’s within minutes behind Sherlock, and headed to the entrance. Molly was just heading out, and nearly bumped into him.

“Molly, I was just about to find you—.”

“He’s on the rooftop,” she said, her voice shaky and her eyes filling up.

John furrowed his brows. “Why would he—?” John gasped. _God no._

John hurried past Molly and ran up the several flights of stairs. His phone rang, but he ignored it, hoping it would ring again until he got up there.

It didn’t.

John threw the door open and stepped out onto the roof. In front of him, Sherlock was stepping on the ledge, his phone lying on the ground.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock whipped around and his eyes widened as he saw John slowly stepping closer.

“No, John, stay where you are!”

“Sherlock…” John whispered and took a step closer. Sherlock swayed on the ledge, so he stopped in his tracks and reached forward.

“Get off the ledge—.”

“He-he’ll have you killed, John.”

“Who will?”

“Moriarty.”

“Moriarty’s dead.”

Sherlock nodded. “He can’t call his people off. I need to do this…”

“No, you don’t. You already did, Sherlock,” John said slowly.

Sherlock looked at him and narrowed his eyes. John continued.

“Nearly six years ago give or take…you came back after two years,” John explained. “Moriarty’s network has already been dismantled, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered on the roof, and it seemed he didn’t see what he thought he would, for his brows furrowed deeper. “Where’s his body?”

“Gone, Sherlock. He’s gone. Sherlock, can you tell me what you see?”

Sherlock looked around. “Just you.”

“Ok. Good. Look at your hands.”

Sherlock did, and his gaze lingered at the wedding ring.

“Who would marry me?”

John swallowed and stepped forward. “I would.”

Sherlock looked at him, and his eyes turned grey. “Something’s wrong…am I sick or something?”

John nodded sadly, and continued to step forward until he was a few inches away, within a hand’s reach from Sherlock. “You are. But I’m here to take care of you. I’ll take care of you, Sherlock. I owe you that.”

Sherlock was silent for several minutes, and John waited patiently. The two shivered from the cold, and the shiver seemed to have brought Sherlock back from his thoughts. He stepped off the ledge, and allowed John to take him gently by his arm.

“Take me home, John.”

“I will,” John paused in his steps and turned to Sherlock. He brought him in a tight hug and slowly relaxed his shoulders now that Sherlock was off the ledge. “I will, Sherlock, I promise.”

They arrived home by the time it was past noon, and John slowly led Sherlock into his chair. He hung up their coats, turned the kettle on, and then gave Sherlock his tea. Sherlock seemed to relax significantly more whenever he had tea. It seemed to comfort him, which John would accept no matter what it was that was doing the comfort; seeing Sherlock relax was in itself a miracle.

There was a settle knock, and then Mrs. Hudson appeared by John’s chair.

“This is the post, dear. Some is from a few days ago, and something from the detective inspector. I’ll put it on the table for you.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” John said with a tired smile.

Sherlock set his tea down and went to the window. He silently picked up his violin and being stroking at the strings as he stared out the window. Mrs. Hudson left without a word, and John stayed where he was, watching Sherlock carefully.

*            *            *

**January 11 th **

“Have you two picked out any names?” Sherlock asked out of the blue.

John furrowed his eyebrows and looked up from the morning paper. “Names for what, Sherlock?” he asked carefully.

Sherlock stared at him with disbelief. “For the baby. Surely you haven’t forgotten. Mary is due in a month, isn’t she?”

John winced and swallowed tightly. They hadn’t talked about this in…well it felt like years. John hadn’t been the father, and when he found out, he was a wreck. Sherlock had done what he could, and was there for him, and as time went on, he moved past it. Sherlock never brought it up, hell, he had never even asked this, when John had thought he was going to be a father.

John looked at Sherlock and shrugged. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

Sherlock seemed to leave it at that, and went on to reading the book in his lap. John smiled sadly. It was the Victorian beekeeping book, the one he got for their anniversary last year.

Recalling on that day sent a shiver down John’s spine and he bit his lip, suddenly feeling his eyes fill. A year ago, he would never have guess they would be in this situation it was almost unbelievable.

“I think I’ve read this before,” Sherlock muttered. “It’s familiar…”

John blinked and looked at him. “What makes you say that?”

Sherlock shrugged and tossed the book to the side. “Must have deleted it, then. The universe is rarely so lazy, after all.”

John furrowed his brows and looked away from the tossed book. “And what does it mean?” he asked gently.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “I don’t know.”

He fell silent, so John was left with his thoughts again. That phrase struck him for some reason…something about everything that has been happening recently, it seemed too much of a coincidence—but the diagnosis was solid, according to Willoughby. John shook himself out of his thoughts, forbidding himself from feeling hopeful and walked to the counter.

“Tea?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but he prepared him some anyway and he drank it without protest.

*            *            *

**January 14 th  **

“John! John! Wake up!”

John sat up and looked around in the dark. Sherlock was beside him, staring at him with a wild look on his face.

“What? What is it? Are you hurt?” John asked blearily with sleep.

“Something’s wrong, John.”

“What is, Sherlock?”

“Last think I remember was being at Dr. Willoughby’s for testing. And now I’m here in bed, with you. Did I black out from the concussion or something?”

John stared at him, and then inhaled sharply. _He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember the doctor appointments and the testing. Does he remember the diagnosis? Oh god…_

“John?”

John turned on the lamp and then sat up against the headboard. He faced Sherlock and looked at him carefully. He still had his ring on—during the first week he wanted the take it off, but John managed to convince him to keep it on, and he still had the necklace on, but it seemed most of the time Sherlock didn’t notice it was there.

“I don’t know where to start,” John said carefully.

Sherlock stared at him. “It’s not the concussion, is it?” he asked carefully.

John shook his head. “Today is the fourteenth. The appointment was—.”

“The 29th of December,” Sherlock said silently. He sat against the headboard, and sighed.

“Have I…how often am I…” Sherlock trailed off. John glanced at him then looked in front of him.

“Not often. Sometimes in the morning, your personality is in tact, but by the afternoon, you’re not here.” John’s voice shook, and he kept his gaze directed at the wall in front of him, not wanting to see Sherlock’s reaction.

Sherlock tensed beside him and reached for his hand. John squeezed it and basked in the rare moment of intimacy they have had. It was comforting to hold his hand, and overwhelming enough that his eyes started to fill. John wiped his face like he was wiping away the sleep, and looked at Sherlock once his eyes were clear.

“You still here?” he whispered.

“I am.”

“John?”

“Hm?”

“What would you do, if the thing that defines who you are was taken away?” Sherlock asked.

John turned his head and stared at him. Sherlock looked at him, and then sighed.

“I’ve asked that before, haven’t I?”

John slowly nodded. “I didn’t answer before, but…I would take what I have at the moment, and hold onto it for dear life.” John’s voice hitched, and he inhaled slowly, attempting to calm himself down.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head. After a few seconds, he looked up and met John’s gaze.

“Do you have a pen?” Sherlock asked.

John released his hand hesitantly and reached the bedside table drawer. He took out a pen and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock uncapped it and began writing on his hand.

“Do you bathe me, John?”

“I try. Usually I find you do it yourself, and are more relaxed about then with a stranger.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw at the last word, and continued writing. Once he was done, he capped the pen and set it aside, and showed his left arm to John.

“If this fades or washes away, will you keep writing it?”

John looked at Sherlock’s arm, and suddenly found his eyes were filling up again. He inhaled deeply and blinked a few times, clearing up his vision.

_The man who gives you tea is John. He is your husband. You love him._

_Kiss your husband, John, because it cheers him up._

John reached for Sherlock’s hand and held it tightly. He sniffled, and looked up. Sherlock was looking at him; his own eyes dry yet pained. John raised his arm and wrapped it around Sherlock’s neck and shoulders. He felt Sherlock wrap his arms around his back and held him closer until he was pressed up against his chest.

“I don’t want to fall asleep…” John mumbled.

“Me neither.”

“I love you, Sherlock. So much.” John leaned closer against Sherlock until he could hear his heartbeat. He inhaled deeply, and fought hard to stay awake, but then Sherlock tensed underneath him, and pushed him away.

John looked at him, his brows furrowing in confusion. Sherlock was staring at him oddly, and shifted away until he was closer to the corner. John realized what had happened in a heartbeat. He sighed, and slowly got out of bed. Sherlock watched him closely, and as John closed the door, he saw Sherlock start to relax and shift back into the middle of the bed, like it only belonged to him and him alone.

John let out a sob, and suddenly the tears where streaming down his cheeks. He leaned against the wall for support, and cried. He sniffled and let out shaky breaths, and exhausted, he slid down the wall and sat by the door. The tears finally started to fall silently, and eventually came to an end by morning.

As morning light streamed in, John showered and dressed, and prepared the kettle for tea. Sherlock walked in fully dressed, looked at John once, and then hovered by the door.

“Have you moved in all your things?” Sherlock asked.

John looked at him, and then nodded. Sherlock nodded back, and then pointed to the door.

“I’m off to run some errands.”

“Can I come?” John asked quickly.

Sherlock seemed taken aback by the question, but slowly nodded. “All right.”

They were gone for an hour, without any problems, but John was tense the whole time, repeating their second day together as flatmates couldn’t have gone more exact to the detail then it did. Sherlock even remembered that he had shot the cabbie the night before. But Sherlock never pointed out their rings, and seemed to have failed to notice John’s anniversary tag around his neck.

*            *            *

**January 29 th **

Most days were repetitive—repeats of the past. It was always before they had gotten together, some before Sherlock faked his death, and some after. Sherlock never remembered they were married. It was always before, with Sherlock sometimes mentioning Mary or John’s girlfriends. John couldn’t help but feel hurt, thought he couldn’t realize why—if it was because of Sherlock’s lack of observation to either of their wedding rings, or the necklace around his neck, or because it seemed their marriage wasn’t worth remembering—which was ridiculous to think. It was common for Alzheimer patients to fall back to around five years ago, losing about two automatically as if by default.

Whenever John handed him tea, Sherlock smiled at him, sometimes forcibly and sometimes not, as if it was a habit he had fallen into and didn’t notice (or bother questioning). At first John was perplexed, his hopes rising slightly, but Sherlock had tilted his head to his exposed left arm, and then John remembered, and smiled back, even though it sent a pang in his chest.

Sherlock’s idea seemed to work; since he first wrote on his arm, John made sure it was still there. He hadn’t been lucid since then, but every time he woke up, he saw it, and his eyes softened when he saw John and tea. It was as if deep down, Sherlock knew John was important to him, he just didn’t know his name or his face.

John walked into the sitting room, spotting Sherlock in his chair, his eyes closed and his fingers tracing the dog tag in his palm. He opened his eyes and spotted John, but instead of a smile, he frowned. He looked at the tag, and then he looked back up, his brows furrowing.

“Who's John Watson?” Sherlock asked.

John kept his face calm and answered him. “He’s your husband.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Who would I be willing to marry?”

John winced and sat down. “Me.”

Sherlock looked at him bewildered, and then slowly relaxed. “You’re the one who brings me tea.”

John nodded. Sherlock looked at his arm, which was covered in a sleeve, but John didn’t doubt he hadn’t seen the words that morning.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. “We don’t have to—.”

“I want you to,” Sherlock blurted out. “At least…I think I do. My arm says it cheers you up. This—whatever is going on in my head, it’s frustrating. I need data…something familiar.”

John swallowed tightly. Sherlock had never spoken about what was going on in his head. “Do you think it’ll help?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I think so,” he whispered.

John stood up and walked up to him. Sherlock remained sitting, and raised his chin to meet his gaze. John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock quickly, closed-lip, and chaste. He pulled away and avoided Sherlock’s gaze, but Sherlock reached for his wrist and held him still.

“John?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. “Hamish?”

John relaxed slightly. “Yes.”

“Watson?” John nodded, held his breath, and waited.

Sherlock looked at him and then slowly leaned back into his chair. He didn’t say anything anymore, and John took it as the moment had passed. He let out his breath, sat back down, and started to read, noticing Sherlock reaching for his book on beekeeping. He asked him if he wanted more tea, but Sherlock didn’t respond.

“Who would marry me?” Sherlock whispered a few minutes later.

John frowned and then leaned forward. “Sherlock, do you know who I am?”

Sherlock slowly looked up at him, but his expression remained quizzical.

“No.”

John nodded and leaned back into his chair. “That’s ok.”

*            *            *

**January 30 th **

John finished his tea, and stood up to clean up their plates. Sherlock glanced at him, and then looked away.

“I suppose you’ll be heading back now? Mary tends to get irritated whenever you stay here overnight.”

 _Oh so it’s going to be that kind of day._ These were John’s least favorite—hell, he dreaded these. Having to repeat the past was one thing, but to include Mary, well, it was painful. He could see it now just how painful it was for Sherlock, but for him to repeat it and think John wasn’t with him was upsetting to John. He had managed to hold his nerve so far, but was always afraid it would unravel.

“Not yet, no,” John answered.

John cleared off the kitchen table, taking the pile of mail, and headed to the sitting room. Sherlock was at the table, drinking his tea, and staring into space. John set the pile beside him and reached for Sherlock’s empty cup.

“Do you want more?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, so John took it as a yes. He refilled Sherlock’s mug, and brought it back, setting it down by Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock reached for it, but it was too close, and it spilled over, the hot contents drenching the pile of papers.

“Shit,” John muttered. Sherlock moved out of the way and headed to the sofa.

“They’re just papers, John. Nothing of importance.”

“They’re bills, Sherlock. They’re what allows us to live here,” John snapped. He glanced at Sherlock, only to be met with a glare.

“Not important,” Sherlock muttered.

John turned around and faced him. “To me, they are. Just because you don’t have to worry about them, doesn’t mean they just vanish into thin air!”

Sherlock widened his eyes. “You’re in a mood. Is Mary the reason? Perhaps you shouldn’t marry her?”

 _That_ was new. Sherlock had never confessed his impression of Mary before. Before she and John married, Sherlock seemed to befriend her. He was never rude about her, especially before her identity had been revealed.

“I’ll marry whoever I want, Sherlock,” John snapped. He went back to cleaning the spilled tea, and moved the mail to the side. There were envelopes and papers underneath, some dating back to December.

_Great. Just perfect—_

An envelope caught John’s eye, and on the side, was Lestrade’s name, and the Scotland Yard seal. It was dated the end of December, just around the day Sherlock was diagnosed. John tried to think of what Lestrade would send to them, and then remembered.

_Dashwood’s picture!_

Sighing, John opened it. He hadn’t spoken to Greg in a while, and hadn’t given that case any thought since then. He took the illustration out as he tossed the dirty rag away and looked at the face.

John gasped and took a step back, his vision blurring. He looked from Sherlock, who was looking intently for something on the coffee table, and back to the image. It was Dr. John Willoughby!

John swayed on his feet. How was this possible? Willoughby helped him, he gave him advice, he was sad about George’s death, and about Sherlock… _Oh my god!_

John turned on his heal but before he could say anything, Sherlock lunged at him.

“Sherlock!”

“Who are you? What are you doing in my flat?” Sherlock reached for a book and swung it against John’s head. John groaned as Sherlock rolled off of him. He saw Sherlock reaching for the phone, and managed to grasp a few words as he stood up.

“Lestrade? Someone just broke into my flat. No, I’m fine, but the burglar isn’t. He’s an idiot for breaking in here in broad daylight. What’s wrong with him? Oh, he fell down the stairs.”

John’s eyes widened just as he felt strong hands lift around his waist and dragged him to the entry.

“No, Sherlock, wait!”

“It’s a better punishment then what my brother would do, trust me.” Sherlock pushed him out, but John held onto him by his robe’s sleeve, and together they fell forward, and tumbled down the steps.

John groaned as he lied on his back, and beside him, Sherlock was still, lying on his side. Panicking, John rushed to his side and looked at Sherlock’s face. There weren’t any visible cuts, but he knew there could be internal damage. Trying not to think of the possibilities, John searched for a pulse, found one, and then reached for his phone.

“Greg? Yeah, I was technically the burglar. I’m fine. We need an ambulance, and can you bring Dr. John Willoughby to the hospital? He’s Sherlock’s doctor.”

“On it, John.”

“Oh, and Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you look into Willoughby’s past for me. See if he owns any kind of business or is getting paid besides from his practice.”

“Um sure. I take it you’ll explain it.”

“Definitely.”

*            *            *

John waited by the hospital bed as Sherlock lied there, fast asleep. He glanced at the doctor.

“So he’s going to be fine?”

She nodded. “He’ll be sore for a few days, with some mild bruising. He’s lucky. It could have been worse.” She looked at him closely. “I understand you fell too. Are you in any pain?”

John shook his head. “I’m fine. Just bruising too.”

The doctor nodded. “Right, well we’ll need to run a CAT scan to make sure there isn’t anything internal that we may have missed. And I sent his blood to the lab for testing, just a procedure. If anything unusual pops up, we’ll contact you. You can take him home in a few hours; we just want to make sure he wakes up. We’ll do the CAT scan as soon as possible.”

“Right, thanks.”

“No problem. And ask him a few times for the next few days if he’s in pain. Alzheimer patients usually don’t remember if they’ve told anyone about pain.

“Will do, thank you.” She left, and then John spotted Greg heading towards them from the entrance, Dr. Willoughby behind him. His hair was blonde rather than black, how Lucy had described him, and he didn’t have glasses. And with a closer look, John realized he had some kind of plastic surgery on his nose.

Upon reaching their bed, Willoughby stepped closer. “How is he, John?”

John looked at him carefully, and stood up. He looked at Greg, and raised an eyebrow. Greg nodded and stepped back.

John looked at Willoughby. “You bastard!” He lunged at him, wrapped his hands around his neck, and fell forward to the ground. Willoughby yelped, and although he was just over six feet tall, John kept him under him as he swung his fist over the man’s face, breaking skin across his cheek and jaw with repeated punches.

“YOU FUCKING ARSEHOLE, A SORRY EXCUSE FOR A BLOODY DOCTOR!” John pulled Willoughby up by the color, and then slammed his forehead against his face, feeling his nose break and spurt blood.

John stood up roughly, and noted with satisfaction that Willoughby was nearly unconscious. Greg stepped forward finally and held out a hand to keep John away, but they both knew it was for show.

John sighed heavily and sat in the chair by Sherlock’s bed. He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. A few police officers had walked in and were now hovering by the medical staff as they wheeled Willoughby away, handcuffing him to the rail. Greg stepped into his line of vision and patted him on the shoulder.

“So you found it, then?” John asked as he looked up.

Greg nodded. “He owns a small manufacturing building, that receives the boxes of tea—the Old English brand. He has people there who he has blackmailed to keep them quiet, and they place the benzos within the tealeaves, and then reseals them in fresh packets, and then ship them off the few stores that sell them. There’s been a recall ordered already. It’s just a matter of finding anyone else who consumed them.”

John sighed. “Jesus.”

Greg hummed in agreement, and then nodded in Sherlock’s direction. “Any idea when he’ll wake up?”

John shrugged. “He was knocked out, so it could be any time. They’re testing his blood, so whatever was in that damn tea would be in his system. They need to be notified about this; would you mind?”

“Not at all. Get some rest, John.”

“Thanks, Greg. I appreciate it.” John grinned tiredly, and leaned into the chair. Greg nodded and then left, sliding the curtain to give them some privacy.

John leaned forward and rested his arms on the mattress. Sherlock was sound asleep, his eyes flickering as if he was dreaming. John wondered what about, and hoped it was good. His eyes started to droop, and he drifted off with his head lying on his arms.

He was awoken by a gentle shaking, and looked up to see Molly looking down at him. John shifted up and stretched his neck. He glanced at his watch, noticing it was past nine at night, and one glance at Sherlock told him he was still asleep.

He looked up at Molly and grinned sleepily. “Molly, what can I do for you?”

“It’s Sherlock’s blood tests. I’m a friend of the doctor’s, and she gave me the results. They show that he’s, well…” she shuffled her feet, and glanced at Sherlock then back at John. “He’s doped up on three different types of benzodiazepines. But I’ve never seen these before…they’ve been manipulated somehow.”

John nodded. “He…I think he was being drugged. Did Lestrade explain it all?”

Molly nodded. “He did. They gave him some narcan to counteract the drugs.”

“Good. He still needs a CAT scan though.”

“They decided to wait a bit, since he’s sleeping now from the small sedative—.”

“Wait, has he woken up?”

Molly widened her eyes. “Oh, I thought you knew. He did, only for a few minutes, before they gave him the narcan. He was a bit delirious, but clear enough to say his name. He was very tired though, most likely from the benzos in his system.”

John nodded and stood up. “Thanks, Molly.”

Molly nodded, and turned around to leave. Greg walked through the parted curtain, and greeted her briefly before turning to John. John acknowledged him, and turned around to face him fully, placing his hands on the edge of the bed behind him.

“Greg. Anything new?”

“Willoughby, or Dashwood or whatever, is not confessing, but we have enough evidence. The media’s been all over this, but that’s expected. There is something we found at his office.”

“What’s that?”

“Sherlock’s CAT scan results. They were locked away in a drawer with others. But in Sherlock’s medical file, there were another set of scans, ones that, according to the nurses, showed early onset Alzheimer’s.”

John inhaled slowly. “And Sherlock’s?”

“They were perfectly normal.”

John exhaled and nodded in response. _Oh thank God._

Greg nodded and then stepped back. “That’s it really. Thought I deliver the good news.”

“Thanks, Greg. For everything.”

Greg left, and John stayed standing. He hung his head and inhaled deeply, suddenly tired all over again. Now all he needed to know was if there would be any brain damage or not. It didn’t seem likely—the benzos may have been manipulated, but they could have just paralyzed or blocked the brain cells from functioning rather than killing them off. Narcan should do the trick, and a lot of rest for a few days. But John also wanted Sherlock to wake up. He needed to see his eyes were clear and alive, and hear his voice, his laugh…

Long fingers wrapped around John’s wrist, and he glanced around, meeting Sherlock’s open eyes instantly. They were greenish blue, glistening against the lights, and clear. John inhaled softly and leaned closer.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock licked his lips and nodded. “John.”

John exhaled and leaned all the way forward. He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder and breathed him in, suddenly feeling light headed. He ran his fingers across Sherlock’s shoulders and to his face. He shifted until he was facing him, and then leaned forward and kissed Sherlock; Sherlock kissed him back as desperately as he could, although tiredly, but managed to bring his hands up to John’s neck and jaw.

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock,” John whispered against his lips.

“I’m here, John. I’m here.”

John leaned back reluctantly. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. And a bit confused. But me.” Sherlock smiled tiredly.

John’s eyes filled and he smiled. He wiped his face, cleared his throat, but found he couldn’t stop smiling. He inhaled deeply and found himself being pulled back into Sherlock’s embrace, strong arms wrapping around his back and holding him close.

“So how—.”

“It was that darn tea, Sherlock. The Old English one.”

Sherlock stilled and glanced at John. “Oh.”

“It’s out of our flat, and everywhere else, it’s been recalled. It all makes sense now, when it was recalled back in March. The first batches weren’t as strong, but when we caught Canterbury, Dashwood had to get supplies elsewhere, which explains why it didn’t restocked until December.”

Sherlock’s face softened with realization. “And this time the batches were stronger.”

John nodded tensely.

Sherlock seemed to ponder this for a moment, and then looked at John with a serious look. “I guess it was just tea. I’ll take you over it any day.”

John looked at him, slightly taken aback. “Was that innuendo? An attempt of course.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Innuendo, John? Seriously, at this time and moment?” His face was smooth and serious, but his eyes twinkled with amusement, and his mouth twitched into a small smirk.

“And Dashwood? Why would he—”

“Was Willoughby. He wanted revenge on Ellis for discontinuing his clinical trial, and fired him when he committed malpractice a few years ago. But since he couldn’t get patients anymore, he’d thought he “create” some, so to speak—”

Sherlock gasped. “That bastard. I take it he got what he had coming?”

John grinned. “And you know that how?”

“You knuckles are a bruised, your left shoulder is stiff, and—.”

“Yes, yes, I get it.” John smiled. “You’re back.”

Sherlock smiled. “I love you too, John.”

John shifted his hands until they were around Sherlock’s back, and held onto him. “Stay with me. Just stay.”

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

John nodded, but leaned back slightly to look at him. “If—.”

“No, John. No ifs. Whatever happens, I’ll always be there for you. And I know you’ll always be there for me.”

John nodded, and smiled with relief. He leaned forward and rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock rested his check against John’s temple.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry I missed our anniversary.”

“It’s ok. It’s technically not for a few days, but at least you remembered the unofficial one.”

“I’ll always remember, John. I…I remember some bits of the past month—not much but a little. And I knew yesterday felt important, but I couldn’t quite find the reason why.”

“It is important. But being with you is more important. In a few days, it’ll be our third—.”

“Which means I have a few days to get you a present.” Sherlock smirked.

John giggled. “Being here and healthy is the perfect gift. But I suppose I’ll want my necklace back. Maybe I should get one for you.”

Sherlock smiled. “Besides,” he started his voice becoming more like his usual, deep baritone self. “We haven’t had sex in a month, and need to—.”

John swatted at him playfully. “Rest first. Sex later,” he said with a serious tone, but his face was twitching with laughter. Sherlock laughed and lifted his chin slightly. John took the hint and kissed him deeply, exploring each other mouths to the full extent after weeks without intimacy.

They held each other, for several hours, and when they got home hours later, they held on for a many more, falling back into their unexpected routine, loving each other more than ever.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, the Alzheimer symptoms didn't include all of the early symptoms, simply because it’s not really this disease, so some symptoms don’t match up or never actually showed up. Again, this is loosely/almost completely but not quite based off of medical facts altered for fiction use.
> 
> Old English = Chaucer = Canterbury Tales = Charles Canterbury the pharmacist
> 
> Dashwood and John Willoughby are Jane Austen characters
> 
> Comment/Praise/Ask/Subscribe :)
> 
> Edit: In a way, the 'comfort of tea' is John, in case it wasn't clear. It's not directly said but I hope it was implied.


End file.
